The Fall
by mjm1996
Summary: After his "fall", Sherlock has to act to keep his family and friends safe until he can come back. But what happens when he falls in love? Can Sherlock handle his new life? And will he ever see John again? Kind of fluffy. Rated M for possible lemons.
1. Prologue

In a fenced-in playground straight across from the London Eye, a little boy of only three years old was occupying himself by playing tic-tac-toe on a panel attached to the side of a slide.

After winning against himself for about the eleventh time, the child grew impatient.

"Daddy!" he called.

A tall, thin man with dark, curly brown hair got off the bench from where he was sitting and calmly walked over to his son.

"Yes?" He looked down at the boy with a slight smile.

"Daddy, help! I'm bored!" the child whined.

"That's what I was afraid of," the man laughed as he bent his knees to get level with his child. "What do you want to do?"

"Push me on the swing, Daddy?" the boy asked, with a hint of fake pitifulness to his voice.

The man slowly got up and then scooped his son up, carrying him against his hip with one arm.

"You're getting heavier," the man told his son. "If you don't stop, Mummy and I may just have to stop feeding you," he said pseudo-seriously, hoping to get a reaction from the boy.

"I don't believe that," the child declared.

"I guess you're already too smart for that," the man conceded.

The boy nodded, knowing he had gotten the best of his father for once.

Once he had situated the boy on a swing fit to the child's liking, the man began to push him harder and harder, helping him go higher and higher in the air.

As smart as the boy was, he was still amazed at how a swing set could make him feel like he was flying. His curly blonde hair, an exact copy of his father's at that age, blew about in the wind, and his light blue eyes lit up with every push higher.

Soon, the man had stopped pushing his son, letting him go on his own, something the boy didn't really seem to mind.

He leaned against a slide, happily watching his son swing to his heart's content, all the while twisting the silver band on his left ring finger absent-mindedly.

A woman with deep brown hair and a pair of aviator sunglasses sat on the same bench the man had just left a few minutes ago, nervously watching her husband and son.

"Honey!" she called. "Don't let him get too high now."

The man turned around and looked at his wife, with a reassuring yet cocky grin and a nod of the head. The boy agreed, telling Mummy he had it all under control.

The woman rolled her eyes and turned to the couple sitting on the bench next to her, joking in an American accent, "Just what the world needs. Another Holmes boy."


	2. Chapter 1

**Five Years Earlier**

He took a deep breath as he walked in for his first day of work. Sherlock Holmes, the famous consulting detective, working a 9 to 5 job. Just a few weeks earlier, Sherlock would have balked at such an idea, but according to his source – a man known only as "Jameson", a professional at making people disappear – it would be best if Sherlock tried to integrate into normal society until all of Moriarty's more violent connections could be properly disposed of. As much as Sherlock hated the idea, he was left with no choice. For one, Sherlock wanted to keep his friends and family safe, and having him walking about London – even in secret – would be just too risky for the time being. Moriarty knew spies, professional assassins, and God only knows who else. As good as Sherlock was at practically everything, he felt he could not dodge any of them forever. The second reason Sherlock left was because of Molly. He had valued her help in faking his own death and he considered her a true friend, but truthfully, though he would never admit it, he did not want to see her hurt in the fallout, either. Besides, Molly's frequent display of cheerfulness and delight at having Sherlock stay in her flat made him feel uncomfortable, especially considering the fact that he had just essentially walked away from his life, leaving all the people he cared about – even loved – to deal with the wreckage. He needed some alone time.

So he left. Jameson suggested America, but Sherlock would not have it. The best Sherlock could do was southern Ireland – not a part of the United Kingdom, where Sherlock, much to his chagrin, was widely known. Jameson pointed out that most people in the Republic of Ireland had probably never even heard of him, let alone seen him.

Jameson got Sherlock a normal, boring flat, and a normal, boring life. Sherlock was now John Benjamin, despite his protests that he did not want to be named after his dearly missed best friend. "John is common, boring. No one will suspect a thing," Jameson said. Sherlock thought otherwise, but he held his tongue. Jameson was giving him a good deal for a total disappearance.

The only part about his new and hopefully temporary life that he had actually looked forward to was his job at the An Garda Siochána as detective. When asked how he managed to swing that, Jameson only responded that a man there "owed him greatly." Still, Jameson reminded Sherlock of the biggest thing: not to draw attention to himself. "Solve little cases, try not to get in the paper," he had said. "And definitely no investigating outside your job. Just remember, you are John Benjamin, a nice, upper middle class boy from London, moved to Ireland with his parents when he was 16, went to Trinity, performed extremely well in the Póilíní Airm, and now here you are. All the records are there. Just don't draw attention to yourself. Go 'round the pub, watch football, date a bird or two. You're a normal bloke now. You're not smart, you're not special. You're just ordinary old John Benjamin for the time being. Got it?"

Sherlock had just simply nodded. All of it sounded so boring. Being "normal" – whatever that was – just seemed so incredibly boring. The only glimmer of hope was his new job, and on that Monday morning, none of it looked particularly exciting.

He had immediately been introduced, trying to fake a smile and friendliness the whole time, which had only proved to be exhausting. He could tell that none of his coworkers would be particularly engaging in regards to the mental area. Still, he sat down at his new desk and filed all the paperwork he was asked to file, signed all the things he was asked to sign, answered all the phone calls he was asked to answer. It had only been thirty minutes when he found himself going mad. "When can't a nice murder happen when you need one?" he thought to himself.

At 10:00, with all his meaningless tasks completed, Sherlock simply sat in his chair, staring off into space as his coworkers hummed and buzzed about him, not noticing a thing. He began to think of John, of Mrs. Hudson, of Lestrade. He wondered if they missed him, if life was back to normal yet, if it ever would be. After all, it had only been about three weeks. Besides his mother, no one close to him had ever died, and he knew virtually nothing of grieving or how to handle it.

Suddenly, he heard a voice, an American one, concerned, and somewhat soothing. "Mr. Benjamin?" He turned around and saw a rather petite girl with dark brown hair pulled back into an extremely unkempt bun and wearing a skirt and heels she clearly looked uncomfortable in. She looked no older than 25, if she was even that. Her wild blue eyes showed just how inexperienced and out of place she felt at her job, but her face was only marred with concern. "Mr. Benjamin?" she asked, more timid this time. He looked up expectantly. "I was asking if you wanted coffee or a doughnut. Tea maybe?" Sherlock thought that meant he might have the chance to get up, so he immediately sprang at the idea. "Yes, thank you." Before she could turn to walk away, however, he asked "Do you mind if I go with you? I haven't seen the workroom yet." She nodded, and led the way.

Once there, she finally introduced herself. "I'm Emily," she said. "I'm the personal secretary for your supervisor, Mr. Scott. I figured you might want a little something to take your mind off your first day." She halfway smiled and gestured towards the plethora of food on the counter. "Right, thank you," Sherlock nodded. He felt as if he was missing something. "What do normal people do in these situations?" he wondered. Then it hit him. He held out his hand after the already awkward pause. "I'm John." It felt odd using his best friend's name. She took his hand and shook it firmly. "Nice to meet you, John. Anything you see here is up for grabs." He nodded once more, grabbing a doughnut so as not to appear impolite. Her use of his new name had sent a strange feeling up his spine, a strange mixture of curiosity and a slight twinge of pain due to who he was seemingly named after.

"Well, then," she began awkwardly, "I better get back to work. Let me know if I can get you anything else." She did her shy half-smile again and stepped to the side, hurrying out, arms wrapped around herself as if she were guarding herself.

"Interesting," Sherlock thought. "What is an American – with a clearly Southern accent – doing in Dublin, Ireland?" He was fascinated by that thought and by her kindness. Most Americans he had ever met had always been rude and impatient, even by Sherlock's standards. But there was something strangely shy and secretive about this woman, and he was determined to find out what. By the end of the day, he was beaming. He had just found his new case.

* * *

Author's Note: If any Americans read this and the above comment in the last paragraph, just know that for one, I am an American, and trust me, I've met some truly awful people from tons of different nationalities, including ours. I was just using that as a sort of stereotype Sherlock had in his head, for I've heard a lot of Europeans truly hate Americans, and I've seen that quite a few times...Anyways, I hope that whoever reads this definitely enjoyed it, and believe me, I'm just getting started. If you're unsure how you feel about this, just give it a follow or a favorite, because who knows? You may just be pleasantly surprised. :)


	3. Chapter 2

Thank you so much for the lovely review! xo

* * *

After a few weeks and a few cases, Sherlock had still not forgotten the mysterious secretary who seemed so guarded. He passed her desk every morning on the way to his, giving her a silent nod of acknowledgment as she did the same. Every once in a while, she would bring him coffee, even if he had not asked for it, because she had thought he looked tired. But she did the same with anyone else who looked tired as well, so Sherlock dismissed the idea that she was giving him any special attention. No, no, no. This girl couldn't be one of Moriarty's connections, could she? He ran the thought through his head several times as he sat bored one afternoon at work. If he could just get close enough to get a read on her…

"Benjamin!" he heard a male voice call. It was Mr. Scott. Sherlock internally groaned. He guessed it would be more paperwork.

"Sir?" He silently kicked himself each time he actually even pretended to respect an authority figure.

"I'm going out for lunch. Take care of this interrogation for me, will ya?" He slapped Sherlock on the back and handed him a file on a man who was being accused of murdering his wife. Finally, something a little bit interesting.

Sherlock stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. A distressed man in a business suit sat across from him at a rickety old table. Sherlock quickly reviewed the file, not even bothering to sit down.

"Mr. Foster, I presume?"

The man nodded. "Listen, I – I didn't do this."

Sherlock raised his hand in the air. "Don't wanna hear it." He glanced back over the case file one more time.

"So," he began. "Tell me, why did you lie about being in London at the time of your wife's murder?"

The man looked dumbfounded. "But I was in London…"

Sherlock laughed. "Mr. Foster, you expect me to believe that? The plane ticket is there, the receipts are there, but…tell me, when did you get such a fine tan?"

The man swallowed hard. "A man can't get a spray tan every now and again?"

"That would make sense…but why are only your face and arms tan, considering how white you are on your hands and wrists?"

"I musta gotten it in London then."

"Hmmm…" Sherlock pretended to think hard. "But your wife died on the 17th. Today is the 22nd. It's been all rain in London for the past two weeks. No sunshine." Before the man could interrupt, Sherlock continued on. "You're a banker, you work inside and get home at dark. I would highly doubt that you're outside for any period of time great enough to get that kind of tan. Unless…I don't know, you were out burying a body? It's been awfully sunny in Dublin lately…and coincidently, your wife was found in a shallow grave right on the edge of town. The fact that you seem to have quite the weight problem probably explains the fact that the grave was so shallow, because you probably tired easily and came back several times during the early morning to try to finish the job, thus explaining the tan, but you just couldn't finish because of your lack of muscle. The latex gloves found at the scene explain your lack of a tan on your hands and wrists. And the fact that you had not shown up into work even before your little trip to London does not bode well, Mr. Foster. Little domestic with the missus maybe?"

The man sat there in shock, mouth agape, seemingly frozen.

"Open and shut." Sherlock smiled cockily and turned towards the door.

"Detective?" he heard from behind him.

"Ah, yes, wanting to confess now, Mr. Foster?" Sherlock grinned.

"Confess this." All Sherlock could remember next was his face being smashed against the glass of the interrogation room, making it shatter and effectively knocking him out cold. When he came to, there was tons of shouting and a very distressed secretary kneeling over him.

"Mr. Benjamin?" She slapped the side of his face that wasn't cut. "Mr. Benjamin!"

"Huh?" he moaned groggily.

"Ah, Emily, he's out of it! Get your keys. You're gonna have to be the one to drive him to the hospital," a man called.

"Shouldn't we just call an ambulance?" she answered back.

"He just needs a couple stitches, maybe some pain meds. No need to call an ambulance and waste their time for something we can do ourselves."

She sighed. "Come on, Mr. Benjamin. I'm taking you to the hospital." All she got was a groan in reply.

She started to pick him up when two other men came over to assist her. Soon, they had Sherlock sitting in the passenger seat of her small car, strapped in and ready to go. She got a handkerchief out and commanded him to press it against the gash across his cheek in a poor attempt to stop the bleeding.

Then, they were off, Emily driving as fast as she could without getting a traffic ticket. "Almost there," she reassured him.

By the time they got to the local hospital, Emily tried to get him to stand well enough so she wouldn't have to carry him through the door. "But it hurts," he whined.

"Well, you're just going to have do it," she reminded him.

They eventually got him in, Sherlock putting most of his weight on the small, 5'2" secretary.

After what seemed like hours of waiting in the emergency room, a nurse came out. "Mr. Benjamin?"

"Alright, I'll be out here if you need me," Emily reassured him.

He groaned once more and looked at her. She sighed and helped him up, asking the nurse if she could just come with him.

The nurse eyed her suspiciously but finally just led them back to an examining room. "Let's see here, Mr. Benjamin. That gash is a good two inches in length." Suddenly, she gasped a bit. "I don't know how anyone could not see it, but you have some tiny shards of glass in your wound." She put a magnifying glass up to his cheek and prompted Emily to come look. Sure enough, there were small, sparkling shards of glass deeply embedded in his wound.

"He's gonna need surgery," the nurse said. "I guarantee it. Let me go see when the surgeon on call will next be available." With that, she stepped out.

"Do you have any family I need to call?" Emily asked. "A wife, maybe a sibling, your parents?"

Sherlock shook his head no. "Any friends?" she prompted.

Another head shake. "Well, I'll stay with you then, Mr. Benjamin. I promise."

He slightly smiled at her through the pain.

The nurse stepped back in. "You're lucky. Our surgeon just got finished not too long ago. He'll come inspect your wound shortly. But for now…" She held up a hospital gown, laying it beside Sherlock. "Put this on."

Emily went to step out at the same time the nurse did. Moments later, she heard a crash. "Mr. Benjamin!" she called, running into the room. There, she found an almost completely un-dressed Sherlock who had just accidentally knocked over a whole row of little glass jars filled with various items such as cotton swabs and tongue depressors. "Sorry. Just making sure you were okay…" She tried her best to avert her eyes, but she couldn't help but to smuggle a peek. For such a thin man, he was surprisingly muscular, she thought. Sherlock, meanwhile, remained speechless. It was different to walk around in a sheet around John, but this was a woman. A woman was seeing him in nothing but his shorts. This had never happened before.

"I should go now…" Emily turned around once more, taken aback, but still sort of pleased with what she had seen.

Sherlock remained frozen there. For some reason, part of him hadn't wanted her to go. "Stupid biology," he thought to himself.

A few minutes later, he called her back in. He was covered this time, and he just needed someone to tie his gown in the back. He had even left his shorts on out of modesty.

She tied it quickly, although Sherlock was sure he could feel her small hands lingering on his back much longer than they needed to. The brush of her hands against his back actually gave him goose bumps.

Soon, he was being prepped for surgery and getting a shot full of anesthetic. The last thing he thought he remembered, although he was not sure, was a much smaller hand holding his right before they wheeled him away into nothingness.


	4. Chapter 3

Thank you so much for the kind words and the follows/favorite! Keep 'em coming! :)

* * *

When he woke up, she was sitting, patiently, in a chair by his bed, totally engulfed in a book.

She hadn't even noticed he had woken up until the nurse stepped in and cheerfully announced, "Look who's awake!"

Emily looked up and saw Sherlock looking at her.

"Yes?" she asked, confused as to what exactly he was looking at.

"Just seeing what you were reading. _As I Lay Dying_. Never heard of it."

"It's a Southern novel, a classic," she answered. "Plus, I thought it might be appropriate for the occasion." She smiled at her own joke.

He couldn't help but crack a smile as well, but only for a second. He couldn't let her see.

* * *

After a whole day and another night of continuous whining and asking when he would be allowed to go home, the doctor finally discharged Sherlock. Emily helped him into her car once more, asking for directions to his flat.

They rode in silence until Emily broke it, thinking aloud.

"You know Mr. Foster did it."

Sherlock nodded, "Obviously."

"But you know who you haven't thought about? The gardener. Who do you think was in London at the time of the murder, spending all of Mr. Foster's cash? You know the gardener had to be in on it. Besides, between you and me, I saw him and Mr. Foster getting a bit too close the night they were both called in for the first round of interrogation."

Sherlock gasped. "Stop the car," he commanded.

"What? What is it?" she asked, panicking.

"Just stop the car."

She pulled over to the side of the road and put her car in park. "Mr. Benjamin, what is the meaning of all this?"

Sherlock said something he had never said to someone else before. "You're brilliant. I didn't even think about the gardener!" He was half impressed and half angry that he hadn't seen it before. "Where did you learn to do that?"

She answered meekly, "I studied to become a lawyer at university for a little while."

"Yes, but skills like that only come naturally. I should know."

She shrugged. "I thought it was obvious. I mean, what gardener can afford to wear a Prada shirt on his salary? He had to have been sleeping with Mr. Foster. Then Foster wanted his wife out of the way, so he tries to set up an alibi for himself by giving the gardener his credit card and sending him to London, making it look like he was the one who was there. The gardener lived on their estate and only worked for them, so no one would have known he was gone. Besides, it was rainy in London all last week. The gardener was suspiciously pale for someone who should've been out in the hot sun day after day."

Sherlock breathed in deeply, knowing he shouldn't do this, but not being able to help it. At least she couldn't be one of Moriarty's connections, he thought, this girl was far too innocent and didn't have an IQ corresponding to her percentage of body fat.

"Do you enjoy this kind of thing? Solving cases?"

She nodded. "That's why I work where I do. No one but you has ever listened to my hunches before, though."

"How often are you right? Give me a percentage."

She thought for a second. "Probably 95%. I sometimes hear the detectives talk about how they regret not listening to me. They still think none of it is any of my business, though. To them, I'm just there to answer the phone and get everyone doughnuts."

"You want to be important. You want some excitement, correct?"

She nodded again, this time half-heartedly.

"Well, I think I have a job for you…" he smirked.

"Oh?" she looked hopeful.

And so it began.

* * *

The next night, a Saturday, she came over to his flat, a pile of books in her arms, almost completely covering her face.

"Thank God you live on the first floor," she joked as he took the numerous books out of her arms.

He inspected each book as he put it away. Books on deduction, rhetorical skills, forensic science.

"You've read all of these?" he asked, slightly shocked.

"Oh yes," she answered. "Some of them several times."

"Emily, how old are you?" he questioned, not realizing how improper it was to ask a woman such a thing.

"27," she responded, hanging her coat up on the rack, not even noticing his lack of tact.

"Must've taken some gap years," he thought. "How could I have been wrong about her age as well? You're slipping, Sherlock," he chastised himself.

She came face to face with him. "How old are you, Mr. Benjamin?"

"34."

"You look so much younger," she thought aloud. "Look at that baby face!" She pinched his unhurt cheek, teasing him.

He tried his best to ignore her comment. "Alright, shall we get to it?"

"Lay it on me," she implored.

"Alright, we have several cases here. I've ordered them by level of interest. We have a 9, two 7's, a 5, a 4, and a 3. Where would you like to start?"

"I say we start with the simple ones and work our way up."

"Agreed. I don't leave my flat for anything less than a 7. That way, we can save the best for last," he grinned.

He handed her the file for the 3 and he took the 4 as they both sat on opposite corners of his couch. Within minutes, both of them were done, the cases solved. Emily agreed to write up the case summaries for them before the weekend was up. They continued on, agreeing to share the rest of them.

"Mr. Benjamin, where do you find all these cases?" she asked, barely looking up from the 5 they were both reading.

"Some of them are from work, others I just hear about," he said absentmindedly.

For the next thirty minutes, they took turns writing on a white board, trying to see the most probable answer. Within the hour, they had it.

They then left his flat and solved one of the 7's by one in the morning. Once back, after celebrating their victory with some champagne and fitful laughter, she collapsed on his couch, exhausted, while he started talking to himself, beginning work on the other 7.

After ten minutes of silence, he turned around. "Emily?"

He saw she was curled up in a ball on his sofa, sound asleep.

He covered her up in his coat and silently went back to work.

At 5, he, too, was growing tired. He decided to give Emily his bed, picking her up gently and silently.

Halfway there, she stirred. "John?" she asked groggily.

He shushed her, telling her to go back to sleep. She seemed to agree, but not before wrapping her arms around his neck and nuzzling into his chest.

He pulled back the covers with one arm, laying her down with the other. He took off her shoes and laid them neatly by the bed. He covered her up, turning around to leave.

"John?" she asked once more. "Stay with me? It's not fair I'm kicking you out of your own bed."

He opened his mouth to protest, but then he thought about the way she had taken care of him at work and at the hospital. She was his only friend here. Besides, like Jameson had said, he should at least try to be normal. Showing an interest in women was normal, and he felt like Emily was a much better choice than some of the women he had met thus far.

So he took off his jacket and shoes and got in bed next to her. "Where do I put my hands?" he thought, unsure of whether to keep them to himself or to touch her in some way. He finally decided to wrap his arms around her, clasping her tightly to him. She smelled of cold cream and sweet perfume and the champagne they had had hours ago. It contrasted to his usual smell of cigarettes and coffee and cologne.

She was incredibly warm, he noted, as compared to his usual iciness, both literally and metaphorically. He liked being around her. She was one of the most intelligent women he'd ever met, and even though he technically didn't need help on any of his cases, it didn't hurt to have a second opinion. Besides, for the first time since Irene Adler, he felt attracted to someone. Irene was more of a curiosity, someone who had vastly more sexual experience and knew how to use it to her advantage, but in the end, emotions were her downfall. But, Emily…now she was smart. She didn't play games, but she still kept Sherlock guessing. He didn't know anything really about her, and he was always yearning to learn more than she revealed. He wasn't even sure of how she felt about him, if she even did. She could just think of him as a friend, a partner, but their recent closeness had suggested otherwise. He chastised himself for even thinking about this. All these emotions were so new and foreign to him. Irene Adler was like a schoolboy's first crush, or a teen's first glimpse into a Playboy. But love? He didn't think so.

But Emily's dark hair, light blue eyes, pale, creamy white skin, tiny yet curvy frame...he had looked. He could look all day. Still, her mind was what got him. She could fire off clever thoughts almost as fast as he. After her first deduction in the car just the day before, he caught himself looking at her lips more and more, wondering what it would feel like for him to press his against them, even for just a second. After all, brainy was the new sexy.


	5. Chapter 4

Emily awoke peacefully, trying to recall the events of the night before. She remembered solving cases like mad, drinking champagne, and…oh. _Oh._

She could feel his arms still wrapped tightly around her and she smiled, then thought for a minute. What was she doing? She had more sense than this. They were supposed to be friends. Her inviting him into bed with her certainly made it seem like they were anything but.

"It's not like you slept with him," she reminded herself. "Not that that would've been a bad thing…"

She almost slapped herself at the thought. Her last relationship had ended so badly that she'd made herself swear off dating altogether for a year. It had only been eight months, and now here she was, intrigued by the handsome stranger next to her.

He was so mysterious, a loner type. The only person he'd really befriended at work was her. She figured he must have come out of some sort of bad relationship as well.

But that didn't stop her. She stole glances at him whenever she could, and sometimes, although she was not sure, she could feel him doing the same. She brought him coffee often, plain black, just as he liked it, bringing others coffee as well so he wouldn't really notice. Even though she had been tired the day he was injured, she had wanted to take him to the hospital to make sure he was okay.

Try as she had, she was sure he wasn't interested. He seemed too focused on work to even give her a passing glance. But on that morning, as she went to get out of bed to go forage for some food, she felt the arms around her gripping her even tighter, not letting her go anywhere. As she fell back asleep, she swore she could feel a tiny kiss on the top of her head.

* * *

The next week, they went out for Chinese. They had been working on a 9 nonstop and had finally solved it. They got back to his flat, drinking Earl Grey tea – both their favorite – and talking about politics, world matters, ideas. Sherlock normally didn't concern himself with any of this, but in the first few weeks of his new life, he had read like mad to keep himself occupied. Besides, he wanted to get a better idea of how Emily's mind worked.

They stayed talking for hours, scooting closer and closer to each other on his couch as the minutes passed. Eventually, she was in his arms once more, curled up on the sofa, and he did not seem to mind. He had grown more and more accustomed to this mild intimacy, becoming comfortable with it and actually really enjoying it.

The week after that, she had kissed his cheek excitedly after solving yet another 9. While she was clearing her throat out of embarrassment, his face burned scarlet, and both were too shy to admit how they felt about anything.

In another week, they had finally cracked their big case. A 10. After going out to dinner at a proper restaurant this time, they once again went back to his flat, prepared to start work on another case, but having really no intention to do so. Instead, they talked as they normally did, Emily finally revealing her reasons to coming to Ireland.

"I'm from North Carolina," she said. "But my whole family is Irish-American. My grandmother stayed in Ireland, and when she got sick with cancer, I dropped what I was doing at university in the states and came here. After she died, I just stayed. I like it here," she shrugged.

Sherlock thought for a moment, not convinced that was everything. He finally asked. "What are you running from?"

She answered back with another question. "What are you running from, Mr. Benjamin?"

He breathed deeply, figuring it may be time. "I'll tell you if you tell me."

So she did. She told him about her father's drinking, and how she'd gone to university in Chicago to get away from him. But not even that was far enough, as her family had followed her there a few years later. Her grandmother then got sick, so she sprang at the chance to go to Northern Ireland and take care of her, knowing no one else would. She had moved to the Republic of Ireland just a few months ago, after a bad breakup and her grandmother's death. "I guess you can say I've been running my whole life," she half-joked. "Now let's hear it."

He sat there stone-faced, unsure of where to begin. So he just started from the time he had met Watson to the time he faked his own suicide. By the time he had gotten done, she sat there wide-eyed.

After a long silence, she quietly asked, "You're Sherlock Holmes? The man I read about in the paper?" She rubbed her head, not quite taking it all in.

Sherlock didn't even know how to answer. "Do you believe me?" he asked.

"Prove it," she implored.

He got up and led her to the computer. Sure enough, a Google search of Sherlock Holmes showed John Benjamin's face, the face sitting right next to Emily.

"Oh my God," she gasped. Her face went from shock to anger as she slapped him hard in the face. "When were you going to tell me?"

He rubbed his cheek, figuring he might have deserved that. "You have to understand. You're the first person I have told this. It's because I trust you."

"I can't believe this." She shook her head. "I thought you and I were…but I guess I was wrong."

"You thought we were what?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"I'm leaving," she announced. "You're obviously some sort of psychopath."

"Sociopath!" he corrected. "And if you'd just listen to me." He tried to block the door.

"Fine. I'll just crawl out the window." She made her way to the front window, opening it and letting snow fall in.

"Oh, I'm the crazy one?" he mocked.

"Shut up!" she called, one leg already out the window.

"Make me!" he childishly replied.

"God, I hate you."

"I hate you more." He pulled her back in from the window, struggling the whole time, before he closed it.

"This seals it," she seethed. "No one has ever hated someone quite as much as I hate you."

With that, they locked eyes and Sherlock did something he had thought about for a long time. He kissed her.

She protested at first, but soon she was kissing him back just as hard. Sherlock had never felt like this before. He had never known what it was like to feel physical pleasure, lust, such deep desire for another person.

He greedily explored her mouth as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him in closer. Soon, they were on the floor, undressing each other, neither really quite sure how that had happened. He kissed everywhere he could, touched her, explored her. He was making sure to take note of each line and curve of her body, where all the angles converged. He noticed how gentle her hands were yet what an impact her touch made. Still, for once, the great Sherlock Holmes was as nervous as he could be. When it came to the actual act itself, he just decided to let instinct guide him as it had in the moments leading up to it.

He did it as slowly and as gently as he could, trying to keep eye contact with her when he wasn't kissing her lips and neck. By the reactions he was getting, he thought he must have been doing something right. Soon, the whole affair ended, collapsing into sweaty moans and pants from both parties and a long, seemingly never-ending kiss.

He soon picked her up like he had that first night, but this time was different. She was looking at him differently, adoringly, and he was doing the same.

He tucked her into his bed once more, settling in next to her, face to face, arms wrapped around each other.

"Emily?" he asked after a few minutes. "What you read in the papers…I imagine most of it was vilifying me…do you really believe what they said?"

She quickly shook her head. "I've seen you in action. You're as brilliant as I've heard. You don't make up your cases. Obviously this Moriarty had some sort of weird obsession with you and made it his life's goal to end yours, even if it meant ending his. But that thing I read in paper, your friend, Watson. All he had to say was good things. Even your brother. Your friends and family are very loyal to you, you know." She paused. "If the article had only included a picture, I probably would've recognized you."

"Would that have changed anything?"

She thought hard for a minute. "Probably not. To me, love is about looking past someone's flaws. I forgive you and I understand why you had to do it, but I swear to God, Sherlock Holmes, if you ever lie to me again…" she began, noting how odd it was to call this man she had just been intimate with, the man she even thought she was in love with anything but the name she had originally learned. It would have to take some getting used to.

"You love me?" His mouth twisted into a combination of a smirk and a grin.

"I was hoping you didn't hear that part," she replied meekly.

"I do love you," he noted. "Trust me, considering what we just did and what I've told you, I'm in love with you. I don't normally get that close to anyone. It usually makes me extremely uncomfortable."

"You looked anything but," she teased. "I love you, too." She reached out and gently stroked his cheek, noting that it was almost healed.

They exchanged one more kiss before finally saying good night and trying to get some rest. As he drifted off to sleep, Sherlock noted that he would never understand these emotions that were happening to him, and he thought it best if he never really tried to.


	6. Chapter 5

Sorry for the wait, guys. I had a lot to do for school...but anyways, thanks for the lovely response this story has gotten. You guys are why I write. :) Hope you enjoy. Long, heady chapter. Gives background about both main characters. The stuff said about Sherlock is obviously not canon. I just gave him a bigger backstory than he has in the stories or in the show because I think it helps connect he and Emily together. Plus, we all know we like to wonder about what his life was like before Watson, and this is my speculation of sorts. Again, thanks for everything, and hope you enjoy it! :)

* * *

So they kept on in this way for several weeks. They would solve cases, have dinners, argue, make love, laugh.

At work, they frequently were seen together, whether at lunch, or in the break room. Sometimes, if he thought no one was looking, Sherlock would give her a quick pinch on the bum, much to her embarrassment and delight. Every time Sherlock felt like he had messed up, he always had a bouquet of fresh flowers on her desk by the next morning, always with a simple note: "I'm sorry. JB."

Their coworkers had begun to notice. They always came separately and left together. Soon, they were arriving together and then leaving together, not even paying attention to anyone else.

Neither one of them confirmed or denied the relationship, but that didn't stop the talking.

Emily's friends at the office always asked about it, but she would never tell, always laughing it off. Sherlock didn't really have too many friends there, and any of his acquaintances were too intimidated by the broody man to ask. A new, somewhat younger and inexperienced officer had once asked Sherlock during a break about his girlfriend. Sherlock simply ignored it, but then the man went too far, asking what she was like in bed, commenting on her attractive figure (in so many words).

Emily had just happened to walk in right as Sherlock had the man against the wall, holding him up by his throat. "That is for _only_ me to know and for you to never find out. You will never disrespect her again." He punctuated each word with a squeeze of the man's throat, finally dropping him to the floor when he realized Emily was there.

She had stood there speechless, half-terrified and half-intrigued. A whole crowd had gathered around as Sherlock excused himself from the break room, the younger officer too out of breath to even say what happened.

Sherlock got a week's suspension with no pay for the incident, using his free time to solve more cases. The young officer had transferred by the time he got back.

Emily had been mad at him for a day or two afterwards, finally forgiving him when he showed up at her door, her favorite chocolates in hand and a teddy bear, with a card in its tiny, furry hands. This one read: "I'm sorry. I love you. SH." He knew material items weren't the best way to get forgiveness, but he was still rather new at this, and she admired his effort. Besides, in all truthfulness, she didn't like the way the other officer had looked at her, like she was a piece of meat. She was happy Sherlock was there to defend her when she wasn't around, although she still wished he had let her handle it in a more reasonable way.

As Sherlock stepped into her flat that night, he promised he would make it up to her, no matter what it took.

A few hours later, he had his head on her chest, alternatively listening to her heart beat and kissing the tops of her breasts. "Am I forgiven yet?" he asked. "Or do I need to grovel some more?"

She feigned thoughtfulness. "I think some more groveling is in order."

"If I'm lucky, can I sleep on the couch?" he joked.

"I think I'll be nice and let you sleep at the foot of the bed this time," she responded sarcastically.

He made his way back up to her lips. "Smart. Beautiful. And yet so generous."

"I'll make a deal with you," she said as he began kissing along her jawline. "Show me just how sorry you are and I'll…" she pulled him close and whispered inaudibly in his ear, her words thrilling him and making his face turn bright red all at once.

He pulled back and looked at her wide-eyed. "O-okay."

From that point on, Sherlock had trouble remembering what exactly had occurred, but he could easily recall that he loved every second of it.

The next morning, he woke up and found her in the kitchen, making tea for the both of them, clad in a white shirt and some shorts. He gave her a kiss on the cheek. "I see you're wearing my shirt," he noted.

"And you're wearing my sheet," she replied.

He had gotten much more comfortable being naked around her, so much so, that he instantly dropped the sheet where he was standing. "Better?" he asked.

"I don't know. Why don't you ask Mrs. McCullough?" She jerked her head towards the window, where Sherlock saw an elderly woman walking her dog on the sidewalk to the right of Emily's flat. She was waving.

He waved back sheepishly before running off to change in a fit of embarrassment, Emily laughing madly the entire time.

When he had gotten redressed, he came back into the kitchen, grabbing a cup of tea and sitting next to Emily at her kitchen table, the shade for the kitchen window dropped back down.

"Mrs. McCullough called. She wants you at her next bridge club meeting," she announced, giggling.

"It's not funny," he replied.

"You know it is."

"Well, I won't have to worry about Mrs. McCullough anymore because I won't be staying over anymore," he declared.

Emily rolled her eyes. "Stop being so overdramatic. She's old and has early onset dementia. I doubt she'll even remember what she saw by this afternoon."

He refused to listen, instead handing her something. "My key ring?" she asked.

"Look."

"Where is my key?" she demanded to know.

"I'm giving it back to your landlord along with my copy as well. I've been thinking over this for a while. Why should we live in separate flats when we spend all our time together? It's really pointless. So, I think you should just come live with me in my flat. If that's alright."

"That's alright," she nodded, grinning.

"Good. Because I already changed the lease to include your name." He handed her a sheet of paper from his pocket. "Emily Elizabeth Daley, you are now the proud co-renter of a nice yet cheap flat with one Mr. John Benjamin. Congratulations."

"Thank you." She kissed his forehead gently before crawling into his lap and going for his lips.

She soon stopped mid-kiss, suddenly thoughtful. "Sherlock?"

"Hmmm?" he asked, eager to get back to the kiss.

"I don't know your middle name. What is your middle name? How can I live with you if I don't know your middle name?"

"Sherlock is my middle name," he answered. "My full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

She nodded in reply.

"Anything else you want to know?"

"What are your parents' names?"

He sighed. He didn't like to talk about parents, least of all his. "Agatha and Patrick, Pat for short."

"Where'd you go to university?"

"Oxford then Cambridge. I dropped out after a couple of years because I found college to be incredibly unhelpful and quite frankly below me."

She ignored the last part of his answer. "Who was your first kiss?"

"A girl at university, I don't remember her name. My 'acquaintances' pushed me into it. It was not very remarkable or pleasant as I recall. Why are you asking me all of this?"

"Because you know practically everything about me. I just realized that I don't really know all that much about you. You don't really talk about your life before you came here. I may love you for you, but sometimes I wonder who that person is," she confessed. "After all, for a while there, I didn't even know your real name or who you really were. I want to know everything I can about you, especially if we're going to be living together."

"Alright," he conceded, deciding it was best not to argue. "What else?"

"Where were you born?"

"London."

"Who was your first love?"

"You," he answered honestly, making her smile.

"Who was your first time?"

He swallowed hard, really not wanting to answer this one. "Next question."

"Now I really want to know. It can't be that bad."

"Next question," he reemphasized.

"Was it that Adler woman?" He shook his head no. "Oh my God. Was it a man? John? He sounded a bit…different…based on the way you described him. Not that I'm judging," she added.

"John is not gay. And neither am I. Obviously. If you think really hard, you'll know the answer."

She thought for a minute, wracking her brain for anyone else he had ever mentioned, but there were really no women he had ever talked about, besides his landlady with the bad hip and the lovelorn girl who worked in the morgue. "Me?" she concluded.

"Yep," he replied, popping the "p" sound at the end of the word. He was clearly uncomfortable.

"That would make sense," she agreed.

He crinkled his brows. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Not that you're bad at it," she quickly clarified. "You're actually quite good at it."

"I sat in during the lectures on female anatomy and human reproduction and I read John's emails to his girlfriends. I know a thing or two."

She continued. "You're just different. Good different. Very gentlemanly. Most…" she struggled for the right word, "experienced men would probably not act the same way. You let me go to sleep, half-drunk in your own bed when we barely knew each other and you didn't try anything. And when you finally did, you were very gentle and loving about it. Still are. I don't think you'll like me saying this, but you really are a very sweet man. Your mother obviously raised you to respect women."

He smiled slightly, then frowned. "My mother died when I was 7."

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright. From what I remember, she was wonderful. Father was a different story. He remarried and divorced several times, sending us off to boarding school, however far away our 'Mummy' at the time wanted us to be. He died in a car accident when I was 25. I hadn't talked to him in 5 years. I was the disappointment, he had said. He was proud Mycroft was going into politics, but all he could say about me is that I was his drug-abusing, university drop-out son. Which is true." He sighed. He had never told anyone that before, not even John. Mycroft only knew because it had all happened to him as well.

"I'm sorry," she repeated again, not quite sure of what to say. "Wait, drugs?" She cocked an eyebrow.

"Just cocaine, sometimes speed. When I was bored. I tried marijuana once. Didn't like that one…" She looked even more bewildered. "I don't do it now," he announced. "I just smoke now. Cigarettes. Promise."

She nodded slowly, looking at him strangely. "As long as you don't do it now I suppose."

"Have you ever…?" he asked.

"No. I smoke occasionally. Cigarettes," she clarified. "Dealing with a drunk father and an uncaring mother took its toll. I started smoking and drinking pretty heavily when I was 16."

He raised an eyebrow. He hadn't known this.

"I stopped for a bit when I went to Chicago. Then, they followed me there. My dad always wanted to have the upper hand. He always wanted to control everything, including me. I'd been in Ireland with my grandmother for about a year when I got the call. He had gotten so drunk one night that he shot my mother during a fight, then himself." She grimaced, the continued. "I didn't go to the funeral. And my drinking ended right there. I didn't want to end up like him. I quit smoking, too, and I enrolled in university to try to become a lawyer after some traveling. I already had my English degree." She shrugged. "Then my grandmother died a few years later and I started right back up with the drinking and the smoking. I finally stopped again when I met this man. He was a doctor. Very rich. We were engaged. He even convinced me to drop out of university because he was supposedly going to take care of me. Then, I get a knock on the door one day while I'm busy wedding planning and it's his wife. He conveniently forgot to tell me about that. So I ran away to the Republic of Ireland, got a job as a secretary, and met you." She sighed, out of breath from her long story. "I guess you didn't know that much about me either."

He didn't have much to say. All he could think to do was to pull her closer to him, holding her like one would a child. He had never been so close to anyone before, and instead of pushing away, he wanted closer.

"I may not know everything about you, but I want to learn everything I can and I want you to do the same with me. Nothing about you will ever change my mind about you." He loved her even more than he had before, he thought. It was nice to know he had someone to empathize and sympathize with, someone to share in the joy and the sadness. "I still would love for you to move in with me. I promise, no secret wives. I've only got one person in mind when I think of my wife." He stroked her hair and smiled at her. He was getting the hang of these emotions; these feelings weren't nearly as scary now. He was finally beginning to understand just how deep his feelings for her ran, far beyond love, but he could never put it into words, so he simply said "I love you very much."

She looked up at him, eyes red from obvious tears that she had tried to hide. She brushed her lips against his cheek softly. After a long silence, she got up, grabbing his hand, a shy smile playing on her lips. "Let's start packing."


	7. Chapter 6

After she had moved in, any secrets between the two were quickly revealed.

She soon learned about his habit of playing the violin and disappearing for days on end to solve a case by himself.

He soon learned that she had a habit of watching what he considered to be crap television and being a morning person.

They soon got used to one another, however, as she started actually enjoying his violin playing (and truthfully, although she did not know it, most of his songs were composed whilst thinking about her). She even began to accept that sometimes, if she was busy or did not feel like going on a case, he would go by himself and he sometimes wouldn't be back for hours or even days depending on his work schedule. He would send a text or two telling where he was going and not to worry, and she always believed him because she knew just how much he lived for cases. After a case was solved, he would burst in the door, scoop her up and carry her into their bedroom, promising to show her just how much he had missed her.

He began watching some telly with her, although most of it he found to be quite insufferable. The only thing he had enjoyed watching, although he would never say so, was the American show _Breaking Bad_. Sherlock liked to sit there and try to figure out how the episode or even the series would end, and it always fascinated him when he turned out to have it all wrong. He even started enjoying how chipper she was in the mornings, even on weekends. If she was up before him or if he had been up all night working on a case, she would always have coffee or tea ready for him, depending on what she thought he had wanted that morning. And she was always right.

When she came along on cases, which was most of the time, she always proved to be extremely helpful, forcing Sherlock to look at the motives and emotional rationales behind a crime and giving excellent write-ups of each case. He loved that she was always impeccably calm in dangerous situations, and although he worried about her quite often, she was very brave.

After a particularly pressing week in late July, Sherlock suggested they take a holiday. "Wherever you want to go," he had said.

She ended up picking a cozy bed and breakfast near Portmarnock Beach.

They booked the holiday, waiting until the next week to go because of the August bank holiday. They both took that Friday off, leaving for a four day weekend on Thursday night.

When they arrived, he sat their bags down near the door, immediately turning around and kissing her.

Soon, they ended up on the bed, snogging like teenagers, shoes off, hair mussed, hands all over, praying that no one would bother them.

That soon ended when Sherlock's phone started buzzing loudly on the night table.

"Leave it," he said as she stopped kissing him for a brief moment. "Whoever it is, I doubt it is that important. Definitely not as important as this," he whispered raggedly into her ear in his unmistakable baritone as his hand went higher and higher up her thigh.

Her only reply came in the form of a moan.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, they lay resting in their bed, he lying on his back and she curled against him, her head on his chest.

After a minute, she thought aloud. "Want some food? I saw a Chinese place not too far from here."

He nodded, getting up and tossing some clothes on. "I saw it too. I'll go get it." He correctly assumed that she would want to shower and start unpacking.

"Alright," she agreed, handing him her car keys. "Please don't break my car."

He rolled his eyes and bent down to give her a kiss on the cheek before he left.

After getting the food (and a bottle of wine and some flowers), he stepped out onto the sidewalk, trying to remember where he had parked. Once he had located the car, he remembered his missed call. Looking down at his phone, he realized it had been Jameson calling to check on him.

As he got into the car, he hit the redial button, not knowing what to expect.

After three rings, Jameson answered. "You're a hard man to find. I tried calling your flat, then I called your cell, then I tried calling your flat again. I almost called your job. Then I think 'Maybe I have the wrong number', so I call the directory. And guess what the directory tells me? There is no singular John Benjamin in the books, but there is a John Benjamin and a Miss Emily Daley at your address. Need I say it?"

Sherlock was genuinely confused. "Say what, exactly?"

Jameson groaned. "I told you to keep to yourself, which generally means don't shack up with some woman after being here for six months!"

"I started living with her after I was here for four months," Sherlock clarified.

"You aren't helping your case! I said date a couple of women here or there. Don't live with one! Does she know who you really are? Does she know how potentially dangerous living with you could be?"

"Yes."

"What in bloody hell is wrong with you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I love her, she loves me. I've even been looking for engagement rings."

"What is wrong with you?" Jameson repeated. "For one, it is already just generally stupid to marry someone after dating for only six months, and two, what are you going to do when you go back to London and tell everyone the truth? That was the plan, was it not?"

"I just know what I want, and I want her. Isn't the whole goal of dating someone to see whether or not he or she is marriageable? I've already decided that she is. And when I go back to London, I can just take her with me."

"You are a piece of work. At least you won't be coming back to London soon. One of Moriarty's assassins is still not taken care of. We honestly have no idea where she is, but we're on it."

"Just keep my family and friends safe. That's all I ask. And don't comment on my personal life."

"Just keep your head low. No more moving in with anyone else. And don't get married or have a kid or whatever else it is you want to do until I've gotten this all sorted, alright?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied, noting Jameson was still commenting on his private life.

When he got back, she was in her robe, hair wet, unpacking their things and putting them neatly into drawers.

He kissed her cheek again, and after a long meal and a lot of wine, they both collapsed into bed, his arms around her, their hands clasped together.

As he fell asleep, he knew that he was not going to listen to a word Jameson had said.

* * *

The next few days were filled with lying on the beach, more wine, nice dinners, and even nicer sex.

He had thoroughly enjoyed going on holiday with her, and he loved waking up next to her, having no obligations for once.

They had gone fishing and held competitions to see who could swim the fastest and to see who could deduce the most about everyone they saw in the least amount of time. She had even convinced him to take a few photos of them together on holiday, so long as she promised not to put them anywhere on social media so that just anyone could see he was Sherlock Holmes. He had even cracked a smile in a few of them.

But one of Sherlock's favorite parts of the trip, although he hated to admit it, was the clothes Emily had worn. He never had paid much attention to anyone's clothes before, except when deducing something about them, but he had always paid attention to hers. This time, there was a lot of lingerie, a couple of sundresses, and quite a few bathing suits, most of which – to his delight – were bikinis that showed off fleshy triangles of her creamy white skin in all the right areas. He may have been the great Sherlock Holmes, but he was a man after all, or at least a man with an extreme attraction to one particular woman. He was definitely not afraid to show that attraction, either. He became bolder with his shows of affection, particularly in public. He had even properly snogged her on the crowded beach one day, noticing when he was done that not a single soul had even looked up from what they were doing. He kept her in the bedroom for most of the time, however, noting that this must be what a honeymoon felt like.

On their last night there, Sherlock and Emily had both gotten themselves extremely drunk, stumbling into their hotel room at three in the morning after spending some alone time on the empty beach, drinking wine and making love under the sand dunes.

They had passed out under the sheets, clothes half on. He had only been asleep for four hours when he heard his phone ring. He groaned and looked to see if it was important. The number on the phone immediately made him jump. He quietly slipped out of bed to answer it.

"Hello, brother," he heard a familiar voice say on the other line.

"God. Do you know what time it is?"

"I figured there might be a 'Sorry I faked my death' somewhere in there, but I guess that isn't really your style," Mycroft observed. Sherlock could already picture the snarky smile on his brother's face as he said it.

"Who told you?"

"A man named Jameson. Says he fixed your disappearance for you. He also said where you are, and who you're with."

"Let me guess. The background check you did on her came back clean?"

"Very clean. Nice girl. Very pretty. Not my type, but…"

"That's because your type is 6'4" and covered in bodily hair. Need I say more?"

"Now I know it's you," Mycroft sighed. "Can't we put aside these petty differences for once?"

"No."

"What I called to say is…that Jameson told me why you did it."

"Obviously."

"And your secret's safe with me. You aren't even going to ask why he told me?"

"I already know. He doesn't like me living with Emily, but he cannot change that. She knows who I am. And I know who she is. He most certainly came to you for an official background check to see if she was one of Moriarty's connections. Even though she isn't, he still thinks it's a terrible idea, and that everyone will find out who I am too soon, probably because of her, and he wants you to talk me out of it, but we both know that isn't going to work, so you're calling me to give your blessing. Correct?"

"Nice to see you haven't lost your skills of deduction. You can do what you want. Live with the girl, marry the girl, have ten kids with the girl, but for the safety of everyone involved, including your significant other, you will have to be very quiet. Just remember that. I'm sure Jameson has gone over that mantra before, but you mustn't draw attention to yourselves. Remember, you have someone else to care for now. I suppose living with a woman might make it easier to hide in plain sight, though," he mused. "That is very much unlike Sherlock Holmes. Tell me, did Emily know just how unromantic and unsentimental you are? Or how inexperienced?"

"I could say the same thing about your cleaning boy."

"Difficult as ever, I may add. This woman must have the heart of a saint. And may I say, the body of a…"

Sherlock cut him off mid-thought. "Thin ice, Mycroft. Thin ice."

"Right. I figured you would be over-protective."

"And I figured you would want to see just how serious I am about this girl."

"Should I get out mother's engagement ring?"

"No. I plan on picking one out myself."

"Sherlock Holmes, a married man. Wonders never cease."

"Well, if you're going to keep talking, can I just set the phone down and get back to bed?"

"Suit yourself. I need to go attend to some matters anyway. You need to go sleep off that hangover and to wash the sand off your unmentionables. Tell Miss Emily I said hello."

Sherlock groaned.

"Glad to have you back," Mycroft said with a hint of both sarcasm and seriousness as he hung up the phone.

As Sherlock crawled back into bed, he mused that he would have to get a new phone number.

* * *

**A/N: The jabs Sherlock makes at his brother that hint at him being gay are not meant to be offensive at all. If you notice on the show, Sherlock calls Mycroft a queen, among other things, just for laughs and I just wanted to make sure it was clear that he was just trying to bother Mycroft, not to actually insult his sexuality. As Sherlock has made clear in the show, he is okay with people of differing sexualities (see: A Study in Pink) and I definitely am as well. Just wanted to clear up that these were not meant to be offensive or seen as shaming those who are gay/bi/whatever. It's all fine, as John Watson says. Sherlock is just trying to bother his brother, nothing more. **


	8. Chapter 7

**Thank you for all the wonderful responses to this story! I love it and I love you guys too. :)**

* * *

Life had been going almost perfectly for the two. They had been getting on quite well, solving cases, living life, this and that. They had just celebrated Emily's birthday in late October, when he had given her the first real gift he had ever gotten anyone. He knew how much she enjoyed reading and he noticed a set of books she would pick up over and over again when she was bored. So, on her birthday, he presented her with a set of leather bound copies of the entire _Harry Potter_ series. Her reaction had woken up the neighbors and kept Sherlock smiling for several weeks afterwards.

On the last Thursday of November, Emily had wanted to make Thanksgiving food in honor of her favorite American holiday. She had missed that since moving to Ireland, she had said. So, she had gotten ingredients to make a fast and rather small Thanksgiving meal for the two of them.

Sherlock had been looking forward to it all day. He already loved Emily's cooking (fried chicken was his favorite), and he was eager to have a pseudo-traditional Thanksgiving meal. As soon as he got back to the office after working this case, he could finally go home.

While she was baking her turkey in the oven, Emily received a call on her and Sherlock's land-line. She listened intently, slowly sinking to the floor at the news she was hearing. She turned the oven off, running out of their flat, car keys in hand.

She struggled to see to drive to the hospital through her tears, and on several occasions, almost hit other cars. She was normally good in bad situations, but this was different.

She rushed into the emergency room, running up to the front desk. "Sher – John Benjamin, please." She was too flustered to even think, let alone speak.

"Room 108."

She ran down the hallway to room 108, but when she got there, it was empty, except for some bloody clothes.

The last thing she could remember was screaming.

* * *

She woke up, several nurses standing over her. She felt numb. "Where is he?" she managed to ask.

"Who, dear?" an older nurse asked.

"John Benjamin – my boyfriend, John. John Benjamin," she repeated before bursting into tears once again.

"Let me look."

"Goddammit. You think you people would know something!" she shouted angrily.

"Should I give her another shot of tranquilizer?" another nurse asked.

"Don't you touch me," Emily warned, wagging her finger.

The older nurse walked back in. "Still in surgery."

Emily breathed a sigh of relief. "How much longer?"

"A few hours. That bullet got in there good."

"Oh, God. Where did it…hit him?"

"Top of his stomach, right underneath a lung. Barely grazed it, but if someone had not been there, he would have bled to death."

"Give me the tranquilizer," Emily urged. "I can't take this."

"Sorry, but we don't do that on request. You're just going to have to wait in the waiting room like everyone else unless you feel like causing a scene again, in which case, there are a lot of officers in the waiting room as well, and they can take care of you."

"Just take me out there. I honestly don't feel like hearing this shit."

The nurse led her to a waiting room where several of she and Sherlock's coworkers were.

An older woman from the office, Jacqueline, hugged her immediately upon sight. "Oh, Emily…" she muttered.

Emily hugged her back, holding back tears.

"How did you let this happen?" Emily asked Mr. Scott, the last person she had seen Sherlock with.

"Typical burglary. It just got out of hand. When the guy was caught, instead of running away like usual, he decided to fight. Benjamin didn't have a gun, and his fighting skills weren't any match, especially not when the guy pulled out his gun…hit him right at the bottom of his left lung, top of his stomach. He fell, bled all over…said he could feel the blood coming up his throat. He told me to tell you…just in case…"

"Please," she urged. "Please. Shut up."

She finally let it all out, more silently than before. A couple of coworkers comforted her here and there, occasionally getting her coffee like she had done for them so many times before.

Finally, Mr. Scott tried talking to her again. He told her exactly what Sherlock had said when he was in the ambulance. "He said…to check his coat pocket."

Emily got up bewildered, going towards his room again. She saw a bloody coat lying in the chair. She was curious to why they hadn't thrown that out.

She reached in the pocket, trying not to cry when she saw the amount of blood, there, she found the usual. Keys, phone, wallet. His wallet had a picture of her in it, one that she never even knew he had.

Searching still, she came to the very bottom of his coat pocket, feeling a small box. She opened the box, seeing a large, square-cut black diamond surrounded by smaller white ones, resting on a thin silver band. She slipped the ring on her left ring finger, collapsing on the floor and sobbing into his coat.

* * *

She awoke in the chair in the corner of the room, a familiar figure resting in the bed near her. She could hear his somewhat strained snoring.

A nurse, a newer, nicer one than before was watching. She came over to Emily, whispering. "Just got out of surgery. We're letting him rest a while." Suddenly, the woman's face became curious. "Are you Emily?"

Emily nodded in reply.

"When he came in, he was delusional; he was screaming your name. I still haven't figured out why he would call out his own name, though..."

Emily moved her chair next to his bed, holding his hand and smoothing his hair. She soon fell asleep once more, emotionally exhausted, her head on the edge of the bed, curled into his unhurt side.

* * *

She awoke once more, seeing Sherlock with his eyes open, his hand still in hers.

"Hello," he greeted her, his voice sounding rough as compared to his usual smooth tone. She could tell it hurt him to talk.

"Hi. How do you feel?"

"Like I could run a marathon," he said sarcastically, but with a slight smile. He looked down at her left hand, reaching for it.

"You found it," he said quietly.

"Yes, I did."

"I'm taking that you wearing it means yes."

"Yes, it does." She smiled at him.

"Good." He tried to sit up, but failed. "Now I really have to get out of here so I can finally marry you."

She leaned over him, very gently so she didn't have to touch him too much. She gave him a kiss on the forehead, smiling down at him. His eyes closed, a relaxed smile playing on his lips.

"One more kiss?" he asked as she went to sit back down.

She went for his forehead one more time, but he shook his head.

"Lips."

She looked hesitant. She didn't want to get too caught up in it and hurt him or accidentally yank out one of the many tubes going into his chest and stomach.

"A dying man's last wish," he implored.

"Don't ever say that."

He looked at her stubbornly, still expecting his kiss.

She finally gave in, kissing him as if he were about to die, passionately, frantically, recklessly. It only ended when Sherlock had to stop for air.

"Can't breathe," he choked out.

"Sorry. Nothing is coming out, right?"

"No. I don't think I am dying, but that would have been one hell of a way to go," he grinned.


	9. Chapter 8

The hospital discharged him after 3 weeks, where he was put on strict bed rest. Emily kept fussing about him, making sure he was comfortable, getting him food, even stealing cases from work for him to read. Although the doctor had told her to, Emily did not move out of their bedroom because of Sherlock's constant whining. He was slowly going mad from all the boredom of sitting in bed all day.

They had had a nice, quiet Christmas, each getting the other gifts and having a small meal together. By then, he was able to walk almost normally, although he still had to use a cane sometimes, reminding him of his dear Watson.

He had even gotten down on one knee and properly proposed on Christmas morning, wincing in pain the whole while. She gladly accepted once more, and after a rather short discussion, they agreed to get married in a small ceremony as soon as he recovered.

By Valentine's Day, Sherlock was almost fully recovered. He could walk without a cane and he was raring to get back to work. In a week, he would be back, and Mr. Scott had already told him what a hero everyone thought he was. That part would almost certainly be unbearable.

But on that Valentine's Day, he got out of bed, Emily having been long gone. He made a few calls, bought a few things, put on a suit. At 2, he texted her.

"Meet me at the following address by 5. Bring a camera. Love, SH."

"What?" she texted back.

"Trust me."

He texted her an address soon afterwards, and although she was confused, she went along with it.

She left work thirty minutes later, going home and showering and putting fresh makeup on, because to be honest, they could've been visiting the queen for all she knew. It was all a surprise with Sherlock.

At 4:45, she knocked on a front door, being greeted by an older woman. She was quickly shooed in, not even having time to ask where Sherlock was or if she was even in the right place.

"Hair and makeup looks good…" the old woman began. "Now, just put on this dress, dear."

She was handed a white, lacy dress before she finally figured it out. "Oh, God…" she mumbled. "He could have at least told me."

She put on the dress, half-excitedly and half-angrily. She was going to kill him, she was sure of it. Nevertheless, she took off her engagement ring, placing it on her right ring finger instead of her left.

"Now that's the spirit!" the woman encouraged, handing Emily a bouquet and giving her a little shove.

She went down a hall, straight towards the living room, where Sherlock waited in his usual suit, sans tie. A man holding a Bible was upfront, waiting patiently. The older woman, perhaps the man's wife, was sitting in a chair off to the side, a handkerchief out and at the ready.

She breathed in deeply, trying to wait to kill him till after the ceremony. She kept walking forward with no music, but still trying to keep in time with the rhythm of her heart. When she looked up and saw the look on Sherlock's face, however, her heart and her feet both ran up the aisle. He looked nervous, happy, and stoic all at once. When she got to him, she laughed nervously at her strange half-walk, half-run down the aisle. She stood beside him, him whispering in her ear. "You look beautiful."

She was smiling now because she was seeing him, because she was with him, because she was actually marrying him. They took each other's hands, looking in each other's eyes.

The ceremony was very short, and she could tell a judge was performing it due to its brevity and its lack of religious references. They used traditional vows, calling each other by their full name, even using Sherlock's real one. Finally, they both slipped silver wedding bands on the other's hand and sealed it with a kiss. After thanking the judge and his wife and getting a signed certificate of marriage and a few photos, they piled into Emily's car, with him driving for once.

"Where are we going now?" she asked as he started the car.

"Honeymoon. Isn't that what people do?" he responded, confused.

"Most people generally tell their wife when they start planning a secret wedding," she reminded him.

He shrugged. "It was more fun the way I did it."

She rolled her eyes. "Should I even ask?"

"Ask what?"

"For starters, the fact that the judge used your real name? The fact that you just have a wedding dress lying around? The fact that I don't even know where we're going?"

"Mycroft, my mother's, and Wicklow, just for a few days."

"How am I even getting out of work for this long?"

"Mr. Scott said it was the least he could do. Our bags are already packed and in the boot of your car."

"You thought of everything," she conceded.

He took his eyes off the road for a minute. "You can't be that mad at me, can you?"

"I suppose not," she smiled. "We are married now, after all." She took his hand and squeezed it. "But I expect it all to be made up to me on the honeymoon," she said pseudo-seriously.

"I've been thinking about that for months." His mouth turned up into a devilish grin. Since his accident, they had not been intimate at all, save for a little kissing. Whenever they had tried, he was in too much pain, but recently, the doctor had told him he could get back to his normal routine, which he hoped meant that he could finally touch his pretty wife again. He'd been saving it for just this moment.

By the time they got to the small cottage he had rented, she was sound asleep in the passenger seat, her head on his shoulder. After he had carried their bags in, he picked her up, bridal style, and carried her into their bedroom, waking her up with a few gentle kisses on the cheek.

"Hello," she greeted him drowsily, yawning and stretching.

He stroked her cheek with his thumb. "Do you want to just go to bed?"

"No!" she quickly answered, now wide awake. "Just let me freshen up a bit…"

She had him unbutton her dress, him planting kisses down her back as he unbuttoned slowly, his hands lingering at the small of her back when he was finished.

"I'll be back," she promised, ducking into the bathroom with a bag.

After he had taken his jacket, coat, and shoes off, he sat on the edge of their bed thinking about London, absent-mindedly twisting his wedding band around and around his finger. That was soon forgotten when she finally came out of the bathroom, fresh-faced, her long, dark hair in loose curls as usual. She wore her black lingerie for the occasion, knowing secretly that it was his favorite.

She sat down quietly in his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him in closer. He looked at her silently, his head too full of thoughts that he didn't even know how to begin to say. So, he kissed her instead.

They had undressed each other slowly, savoring the moment. She kissed down his neck, feeling his arms, noting he was still just as muscular as when they had met. She eventually made her way down to his healing wound, now merely just a scar. She ran her fingers across it tenderly before giving it a small kiss. She kept on kissing him lower and lower, everywhere she could think of, and he did the same to her.

They eventually met again in a kiss on the lips, hard, sweet, and deep. It was just like the first time they had done this. He was still boyishly nervous, trying to make the night memorable. She was ever-patient and loving, looking into his blue-green eyes and wrapping herself around him; neither was beginning to be sure where one ended and the other began.

They had ended up in each other's arms, staying up and talking and laughing and kissing like they hadn't been able to do in so long. This time, he fell asleep on her, his head resting gingerly on her chest and his arms wrapped around her tightly, and when she went to turn off the lights, he clutched her tightly, not letting her go, just like he had their first night together. She had become more than his wife; she was his support.


	10. Chapter 9

After they got back from their honeymoon, everything continued, business as usual. When they had gone back to work wearing matching wedding rings, their coworkers weren't surprised. They never were anymore with those two.

Emily Daley was now Emily Holmes, or Emily Benjamin, depending on who you asked. Although he hadn't been able to make it to the wedding (a very strategic move on Sherlock's part), Mycroft dropped in unexpectedly a month after their wedding.

Emily answered the door, surprised to find a man in a suit, carrying luggage.

"May I help you?" she asked. Funny, there weren't traveling salesmen anymore, she thought, and certainly one who didn't dress this nicely or look this well-rested.

"You must be Emily." He kissed both of her cheeks, giving her a half-hug.

"Hello," she greeted, a bit taken aback. "John?" she called.

Mycroft laughed at Sherlock's fake name.

"What? I'm doing an experiment!" Sherlock shouted back.

Mycroft looked at her, a sarcastic grin coming over his face. "Trust me, dear, Sherlock will know who I am."

She immediately became defensive. "Who are you and why are you here? There is no 'Sherlock' here. Just a John and an Emily." She was worried he was someone there to hurt Sherlock and herself.

Mycroft stepped past her small frame, carrying his luggage behind me.

"You really should leave," Emily pressed.

Mycroft set his luggage down, walking to the kitchen where Sherlock sat at the table.

He sat across from him at the table, waiting for his little brother to look up.

Emily had gotten her gun from their bedroom, just in case, hiding it behind her back.

Mycroft got a newspaper out and began reading. "Dear, you should really put the gun down."

With that, Sherlock finally looked up, sighing at his guest.

"Emily, put the gun away. It's just my over-obtrusive brother."

She put it down, holding out her hand. "Welcome to our home. Sorry about that…Just thought you might be here to hurt Sherlock…He has a tendency to end up in the hospital."

"That doesn't surprise me," Mycroft mused, giving Emily a once over.

"She's pretty," he told Sherlock. "And rather spunky. I quite like her."

"I do, too." Sherlock never once looked up.

"Nice to know you keep me around for more than housekeeping," Emily replied. "But, what did we talk about?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'll clean the brain matter off the table. Till it's sparkling," he said sarcastically.

Mycroft laughed. "I love this."

"Shut up," Sherlock replied.

Emily offered Mycroft some tea, and he accepted. "You're Southern…" he began. "Tell me, can you make sweet tea?"

She nodded.

"I'd like to try that. Something new," he said with a click of his tongue as he turned the page to his newspaper.

Fifteen minutes later, Mycroft finished his first glass. "Why don't we drink that?"

"Because it's type two diabetes waiting to happen," Sherlock answered, still working. "And don't expect my wife to wait on you hand and foot, either," he whispered lowly, his voice almost a growl.

Emily rolled her eyes, hearing every word. "Don't listen to him. You're our guest."

Mycroft put his paper down and turned toward her. "Tell me, how do you put up with him? I'm forty-two years old and I still can't manage."

"He's not so bad," she responded, smiling slightly.

"You must bring out another side in him," Mycroft speculated. He noticed her large engagement ring and their wedding picture hanging on the wall, Sherlock smiling happily in it. Sherlock had never been one for sentiment, but yet here he was.

Mycroft soon excused himself to the restroom, using his trip as an opportunity to snoop. This was all so strange, he noted. He went in their bedroom, sheets still mussed about. "Little brother has quite the active sex life," he thought to himself, noting the messiness of the sheets and their frequent rewashing. The sheets had never been ironed, much less folded or made up properly. He noticed roses in a vase beside what must have been Emily's side of the bed. A gift from his little brother, probably after a fight. On Sherlock's side of the bed was a picture of his wife on holiday at the beach, clad in only a dark blue bikini and sunglasses; the frame was turned as if Sherlock had wanted it to be directly in his line of vision as he woke up and went to sleep.

He ambled his way into the bathroom, looking into the medicine cabinet. The usual. Aspirin, a few toiletries, a retainer, some birth control pills, all taken on time, he noticed. Nothing interesting there, but he could tell by the number of damp towels in the hamper that they had recently taken a shower together.

Next was the closet. Very neat, at least for Emily's part. Her wedding dress hung, wrapped in plastic, near Sherlock's suits. She wore a lot of boots and heels, but had sandals and sneakers as well. Both of them wore a lot of black and other dark colors.

When he got back after his quick tour, Sherlock was cleaning up his mess so Emily could cook dinner for the three of them. "Have fun snooping?" Sherlock asked to where only his brother could hear.

"You're quit normal, surprisingly. Typical newlyweds. It'll fade."

"Perhaps," Sherlock conceded. "But I doubt it."

"Still stubborn as ever," Mycroft pointed out. "I'll have to go now, I'm having to do damage control on Prince Harry later. You two enjoy your dinner and whatever else it is you do."

He kissed Emily goodbye on the cheek, thanking her for her hospitality.

"This was certainly eye-opening," he said to Sherlock before being picked up in a mysterious black car. "Next time be sure to make up your bed before the day begins. Or else…" he held up a pair of lacey red underwear, "someone might just find these."

Sherlock's face turned brightly red as he grabbed the underwear, trying not to punch his brother. Mycroft laughed wildly as the car sped off into the night.


	11. Chapter 10

In May, Sherlock took a business trip. The An Garda Sícohána had a lead that led to Kilkenny, and Mr. Scott wanted to keep it to show the chief at Kilkenny "how it was done."

Sherlock was Mr. Scott's best investigator, so, naturally, he was asked to go. Sherlock shouldn't resist a good case, so he immediately starting packing.

"Don't get hurt," Emily warned as she gave him a kiss on the cheek goodbye. It was hot and muggy outside, and she could tell the days were going to be long without Sherlock there.

"I'll miss you," he said, a statement he said rarely, even to his own wife.

"I'll miss you, too," she replied, giving him a tight hug.

"Call me sometime!" she called as he went to head out the door

"I'll text," he answered, giving a wink as he walked out the door coolly.

Boredom got the best of Emily after a few hours, and not having heard from him, she decided to have a little fun.

Twenty minutes later, just as he had sat down for a long, tedious dinner with his coworkers, he checked his phone. When he saw a text from Emily, he thought there must be something wrong. They never texted when they knew the other was busy, and Emily had never been the clingy, jealous type.

When he opened his texts, he almost dropped his phone. Clearing his throat, he headed off to the bathroom so no one could see what his wife had just sent him.

It was very subtle, but he had to admit that it got his attention. She had sent him a picture of her reading, but they both knew it was not the book he would pay attention to. The book was propped against her lap as she laid back, probably leaning against the headboard of their bed, her knees bent. The rest of her was clad in lingerie, a plentiful amount of skin showing in some of Sherlock's favorite places. The caption read "What do you think of this book? Haven't ever read it."

He honestly hadn't even noticed the title of the book. _Lolita_. He searched his mind, trying to remember what that one was about, then it hit him. "Oh."

That photo was going to prove to be a distraction for the rest of the night. The great Sherlock Holmes wouldn't even be able to think straight now, all because of a certain woman. His wife. Who looked rather good in lace, he noticed.

He tried to remain detached, business-y. After all, there was a case to solve. So he simply texted back, "Busy."

He closed his phone, heading back to the table, trying to get his mind off of her.

A few minutes later, his phone buzzed again. A frowny face. "But I miss you."

He sighed. He should not be doing this. "I miss you too. But still busy."

She didn't text back again, not until he had gotten back to his hotel room, intent to go ahead and work on the case so he could get home sooner. Working was no fun without his Emily

This time, it was another picture. He was glad he was in his hotel room when he opened it because in this one, she had sent a picture of her breasts, completely uncovered. "Still busy?"

He took a deep breath. "Mind over matter, Sherlock. It's just sex." But the more he looked at the photo, the more he got distracted. He imagined his hands and mouth exploring the very places she had sent him pictures of.

"You're distracting me," he texted back.

"Well, that was rather the point."

"You know, if I hadn't married such a stunning woman, this would not be a problem." He had a little time to flirt.

"If I hadn't married such a gorgeous man, I might not be as lonely when he goes away."

"It's only for a few days. I promise."

"Promise you won't flirt with the all the beautiful women in Kilkenny?" she asked sarcastically.

"I would never. Promise you won't leave me for the postman? I don't like the way he looks at you, Mrs. Holmes."

"Never. I'm far too in love with my husband…but, if he doesn't come back from his trip soon…anything could happen."

"I'm on it."

He stayed up all night, trying to crack the case. By five o'clock the next afternoon, the case was solved and he was ready to go back home.

At 7, he burst in the door, setting his bags down in the living room calmly then immediately kissing Emily, who was sitting on the couch going over one of their joint cases.

"I've missed you," he murmured in her ear as he started taking her clothes off, not even bothering to go to their bedroom.

"I thought you'd forgotten about me," she teased as he kissed down her neck.

"Never," he whispered into her collarbone as his hands went for her breasts.

They ended up on the couch, the coffee table, and then, finally, in their bedroom.

"I love you," she panted, of of breath.

"I love you, too."

"I know." She smiled as he gently kissed her forehead.

The phone rang loudly on the bedside table. Sherlock groaned when he saw who it was. Not even getting out of bed, he answered.

"Yes, Jameson?"

"Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"How's the wife?" Jameson asked sarcastically.

"She's rather good at the moment," Sherlock replied, referring to what he and Emily had just finished doing.

"She's right next to you, isn't she?"

"Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of her."

"God, I miss it when you were all cold and detached."

"I don't have all night," Sherlock said, growing more and more impatient.

"Well, I have good news and bad news. We found the last of Moriarty's assassins. She's somewhere in the U.S. The bad news is, we just don't know where. Me and Mycroft are both on it."

"Mycroft and I," Sherlock corrected.

"You get the point."

"Yes, I do. Now, goodnight."

"But I haven't even gotten to the best part yet. Don't you want to know how your friends in London are?"

"Are they still alive?"

"Yes."

"Good. Keep it that way."

"All I'm saying is that you're going to be in for a few surprises when you come back."

"I think I can handle it. Now, goodnight, Jameson." Instead of waiting for a reply, he simply hung up.

"Is everything alright?" Emily asked.

"It's fine." He kissed her forehead once more.

"Good," she replied, wrapping her arms around his waist. "You know, I'm still not tired…" she said suggestively, her hands moving lower.

"Neither am I," he replied, turning the light out.

* * *

It was two months later when Emily didn't come home.

Sherlock had gotten off work at 5, and Emily had gotten off at 2. When he got home, she wasn't there. No note, no phone call, nothing. She was never usually late, and when she was, she always called.

He paced around their apartment for hours, wondering where she could be. By 8, he started checking local police reports, looking for traffic accidents, anything.

"This is not like her," he said aloud. Even though Sherlock always went off to solve cases, he always let her know he would be gone.

He called work twice to make sure she hadn't come back in.

Then, he called Jameson, in a panic. "No one has hurt your wife," Jameson said. "She'll turn up."

Next was Mycroft. "No, sorry," Anthea told him.

He paced around the flat some more, about to rip his hair out. "I put her in danger by even talking to her. What if someone hurt her?" He didn't want to think about the other option.

At 10, she walked through the door as if nothing had ever happened. She sat down some shopping bags on their kitchen table, looking preoccupied.

Sherlock had followed her into their kitchen, waiting for an explanation.

"I just lost track of the time," she mumbled, trying to step past him.

"You lost track of the time?" he exclaimed. "For 8 hours?"

"You're my husband, not my keeper," she reminded him, heading towards the fridge.

"A phone call wouldn't have killed you. Even I tell you when I'm going to be away."

"It's not a big deal," she muttered, grabbing an apple.

He suddenly thought about something that had never even crossed his mind. All the signs were there. "You're having an affair," he said quietly, looking dejected.

"No, I'm not."

He suddenly grabbed her hands, studying them. He saw a little tan line where her wedding ring had originally rested. The ring had been moved. The outside of the plain silver band was clean, but the inside, that was sparkling as well. "God."

"I'm not having an affair," she reiterated once more.

"Obviously you are."

"I promise, I'm not."

"Then what is it?"

She thought for a moment. Best to get it over with quickly, like ripping off a bandage. "I'm pregnant," she blurted out, then winced, waiting for his reaction.

"Are you sure?" He studied her carefully.

"Yes, I'm sure. The doctor told me today."

"How far along?" he asked slowly.

"Two months."

"How?"

"I missed a couple of pills...and then, you got home from your trip a couple of weeks later…"

"I know that part."

She shrugged. "I've been out for hours trying to figure out a way to tell you." He looked at her ring. "I've been having to take it off lately. My fingers have been swelling. I figured I just put on a few pounds," she explained. "Are you mad?" she asked, knowing his answer wouldn't change anything.

"No. What's done is done."

She nodded. They both had missed it because they had never expected it. Sherlock thought Emily having an affair was far more likely than this. They had never even discussed this.

"I found an obstetrician."

"Good." He nodded slowly, not quite sure how to take it all in.

"Our baby should be born around Valentine's Day, our first anniversary," she told him, watching his facial expressions. She noticed a small twitch of his lips when she had said "our baby."

He reached his hand out to her stomach, hesitant. "May I?"

"Of course."

He touched her stomach, knowing he wouldn't be able to feel anything yet, but nonetheless being intrigued by it all. He smiled slightly.

"I have a sonogram," she said, turning around and reaching into her bag. She produced a typical looking sonogram, all black and white and grey and lines. But in the middle, there was a tiny cluster of cells, barely forming anything yet, relaxing away.

"That's ours," she stated proudly. "The doctor showed me – you can sort of make out the face there, the beginning of some very small arms and legs," she pointed out.

"And it's healthy?"

"Very. What do you think?"

"Do you have copies of that sonogram?"

She nodded and handed him one. "I think our baby is beautiful," she declared.

He seemed to agree, staring at the sonogram for a few minutes before finally tucking it into his pocket. He bent down slowly, giving her stomach a small kiss.

The next day, when she went into the break room for some coffee, she found their baby's sonogram hanging proudly up on the refrigerator for all to see.


	12. Chapter 11

It was in November, when Emily was six months pregnant, that Sherlock got the call.

"We've been working on it around the clock. We got her," Jameson panted, out of breath. "Your name is cleared, Mycroft made sure of it. He even got you a posthumous pardon. Everyone knows the truth about Rich Brook and Moriarty. Everything is out in the open now, except, you know, everyone but me and Mycroft –Mycroft and I – think you're dead. But the important part is, you can come back now. No more hiding. Hell, tell your neighbors you're Sherlock Holmes, tell anybody that'll listen. I'll start working on getting you back to London."

Sherlock hung up the phone without saying a word. He looked over at his very pregnant, sleeping wife, clad in a t-shirt three sizes too big. Her hands were curled around her bump protectively, as if she was already cradling their son in her arms.

He was dying to get back to London, but he couldn't move a pregnant woman to a whole different country three months before she was to give birth.

The next morning, a Saturday, they were both up rather early, Sherlock not sleeping at all after he got the call. When she found out, Emily had only one thing to say:

"We're going."

They packed their things, paid their last bills, and gave Mr. Scott two weeks' notice. At work, the whole staff threw a going away party/ baby shower for the two, which Sherlock didn't even bother to attend. He made an appearance at the very end, helping to put the gifts in the car and then proposing a toast, something he never usually did, but he had wanted to relish in this moment. After talking about moving and the baby and giving a bullshit speech about how much he loved his job, he asked one thing of his coworkers before he left.

"Please, get out your phones."

Everyone did so, expecting he would be giving them a new phone number or address or asking them to take a picture.

"Now, go to Google Images, please."

He waited. Intelligence wasn't a hallmark of this bunch.

"Now, type in this phrase exactly. Sherlock – S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K – Holmes –H-O-L-M-E-S."

He patiently waited as Emily stood there, unsure of how to act.

Then, it came. A few audible gasps, a couple of murmurs. No one was sure of what they were seeing.

After a few minutes, the crowd finally hushed, looking to Sherlock. He looked back at them calmly, before grabbing Emily's hand and starting out the door. "Trust me, if you haven't heard of me, you will." He gave his signature wink and a "Laters!" before hopping in the car to head to the airport with his wife.

* * *

When they arrived in London, they were greeted by stares and whispers. "Can't be him, can it?" they heard quite a few times.

The first stop was Mycroft's office. There, they met Jameson and got driver's licenses and passports with their real names on them.

"People are talking," Mycroft warned. "I'm afraid you're going to find things have changed in London since you were last here."

"Can't be that different," Sherlock mused.

"You'd be surprised," Mycroft said as Emily and Sherlock headed out the door.

The next stop was Molly's flat, to take care of the paperwork concerning Sherlock's fake death. If he was going to come back, he needed there to be no obstacles in the way, especially legal ones.

"Can't Mycroft take care of this?" Emily asked.

"No, because not even Mycroft knows how I did it. As far as he is concerned, Molly wasn't involved. He can have his suspicions, but…"

"Alright," Emily conceded. "But I'm warning you. If she makes a pass at you, I won't hold back. Now that I'm pregnant, I have an excuse."

Sherlock laughed. "That is exactly why I married you."

They reached Molly's flat, hand in hand. He knocked on her door, knowing she would be home.

They could hear a squeal coming from the other side of the door when Molly looked through the peephole.

"Sherlock!" she exclaimed when she opened the door. "You're back!" She gave him a tight hug, not even noticing Emily. Sherlock patted her on the back, clearing his throat.

Molly looked up and found a rather small pregnant woman standing sort of behind Sherlock, waiting patiently.

"Who's this?" Molly asked, clearly embarrassed.

"My wife," Sherlock said. "Molly, this is Emily." He turned around to give Molly a better view of his wife, but instead heard a large thud.

Sherlock sighed. "I really hope not too many people are going to pass out on me."

"I don't know. You're quite the ladies' man," Emily teased.

He rolled his eyes, stepping around Molly and inviting himself in.

"We can't just leave her on the floor," Emily reminded him.

"I'll get some cold water. She'll come to in a few minutes, I'm sure," he replied.

Ten minutes later, Molly awoke, hoping to find Sherlock standing over her, but instead seeing the person she thought had just been a dream. A pale, dark haired, beautiful woman, married to Sherlock. Having Sherlock's child.

"It's not fair," Molly muttered as she pressed her hand to her forehead.

"What's that?" Emily asked, helping her up.

"Nothing," Molly smiled, clearly uncomfortable. She became even more uncomfortable when she saw Sherlock put his arm around this woman he had called his wife. He was looking at her, the same way Molly thought she must have looked at Sherlock all these years. When she saw the silver band glistening on Sherlock's left hand, she had to hide her visible disappointment.

"Molly, I just need the documents you did on my death to be destroyed," Sherlock explained, wanting to leave.

Molly nodded slowly. "Sorry, I'm still just a bit lightheaded."

Sherlock nodded as well, wanting to end the awkwardness. "Well, we'll be going now."

Molly showed them out, her head still spinning.

"Nice to meet you," Emily called as she and Sherlock left.

"Nice to meet you, too," Molly mumbled, going inside to have a drink.

* * *

Lestrade and Sally Donovan had both fainted as well when they saw what they could only assume to be a ghost. After the initial shock, Lestrade greeted Sherlock warmly, inviting him into his office to talk and to mainly apologize for the events leading up to Sherlock's fall.

After Sally caught her breath, she tried to continue business as usual. When she saw a pregnant woman sitting in the corner of the waiting room, she stopped to help.

"Has anyone helped you, dear?"

"I'm just waiting on my husband," Emily explained. "This whole pregnancy thing is exhausting," she laughed.

Sally laughed as well. "Is it a boy or a girl?"

"A boy," Emily answered, beaming.

"Well, good luck to you," Sally replied.

"Here's my husband now." Emily rose, walking over towards Sherlock.

"Who's this?" Lestrade asked, curious and a tad bit surprised. Sherlock had never been interested in women before.

"DI Greg Lestrade, this is my wife, Emily." Sherlock gestured towards her as she extended her hand.

"A wife," Lestrade repeated, a little shocked. "A pregnant wife – I didn't think you had it in you," he said, laughing jovially.

Before anyone could say anything else, Sally overcame her speechlessness and spoke directly to Emily, ignoring the fact that Sherlock was standing right there.

"You…married this…freak?" she asked, her voice becoming hysterical. "Do yourself a favor: get a divorce, put the kid up for adoption – Lord only knows how messed up his kid'll be. Then, change your name and forget all about him, cause this can only end badly for you. Just ask John Watson."

The next thing Sally could remember was falling to the ground once more, bleeding this time.

"I think you broke her nose!" Lestrade exclaimed to Emily.

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk a bit.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Emily sat in Lestrade's office, sobbing. "I…I…I'm just so sorry. I've been so hormonal lately and the baby has been keeping me up at night and it all just happened so fast. I'm so sorry." She threw herself on Sherlock's shoulder, crying dramatically.

"I'll try to convince her not to press charges. I think it's only a fracture." Lestrade shrugged.

"Oh, thank you. You're such a nice man," Emily blurted out between sobs.

"My wife is pregnant at the moment too, so I know how it is," he replied empathetically. "Sherlock, take her home and make sure she gets rest."

After an even more dramatic exit in which a bawling Emily had to be practically carried out by Sherlock, they hailed a cab. As soon as they got a few blocks over, Emily immediately stopped crying and pretended like nothing had happened. "That'll teach her to talk about my husband and son," she mumbled, then looked over to an impressed Sherlock, shrugging. "I took drama for two years at university."

"Again, why I married you," Sherlock reminded her. "But I didn't know you had such a strong left hook."

"That's why you better watch it," she joked, mockingly holding up a fist. "Where are we going anyway?"

"221B Baker Street. Read about a great little flat there. If you don't mind, can you go check it out and talk to the landlady while I go talk to John? Mycroft has arranged a meeting between us."

"I have a feeling that only one party knows what this meeting is truly for."

"That would be absolutely correct," Sherlock conceded, right as the cab stopped in front of 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock helped Emily out of the cab, kissing her goodbye on the check.

"Good luck," she called after him.

She stood in front of the flat, examining every detail. "Looks great," she whispered to her bump excitedly, smiling.

She knocked on the door and was greeted by a nice older woman. After telling her she was there to look at the flat, the woman invited Emily in. "I'm Mrs. Hudson," she introduced herself. For some reason, Emily thought that name sounded familiar.

On the other side of town, Sherlock walked into a restaurant, very posh, with all the doors being swung open for him. At a table, he saw that same wonted face, only older, more mature. Mustachioed. When Sherlock arrived at the table, the man was intently looking at his menu, not even bothering to look up. Sherlock needed to get his attention. All he had to do was say one word in his old, recognizable baritone.

"John."


	13. Chapter 12

At 221B Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson was preparing tea while Emily sat in a rather dusty chair.

"You'll have to excuse the mess, dear. It's been a while since anyone has lived here. I probably shouldn't have said that," Mrs. Hudson joked as she walked back into the room, two cups of tea in her hand.

"It's alright. But why hasn't anyone lived here for so long? I rather like it here. And the price is perfect."

"Well, the person who lived here before..." she began. "Surely, you've heard."

"No ma'am. I just came here from Ireland with my husband, today actually."

"That's lovely. You know, when my husband and I first moved to London, we had a little flat like this, a real fixer upper. It's where we brought my son home from the hospital to."

Emily patted her stomach. "Well, I hope we can bring our son home to a nice little flat like this, too."

"How far along are you, dear?"

"7 months," she answered proudly. She reached for her purse. "I have a sonogram here somewhere…"

As Emily pulled out her billfold, a picture fell out.

Mrs. Hudson picked it up, examining it, her smile soon turning into a look of horror.

"What did you say was your name again?" she asked, her voice raising to a pitiful squeak.

"Emily – Emily Holmes."

"And your husband's name?"

"Sherlock…"

"Oh my." With that, Mrs. Hudson fell out of her chair into the floor, passed out.

Emily saw her wedding picture with Sherlock laying on the floor beside Mrs. Hudson. "Oh, no."

It didn't take her long to put the pieces of the puzzle together. She was going to kill him.

* * *

At the restaurant, John's voice was reaching hysteria. "What do you mean you faked your death? I watched you die!"

"I had to. Moriarty said if I didn't kill myself, then his assassins were going to kill all my friends. I saw him put the hit out on you myself."

"So you just fake your death and tell no one. Do you know," John began, his voice breaking, "how many times I called your phone and left you voice messages? How much therapy it took to be able to sleep at night? How many times I defended you in the press? And you couldn't make one stupid phone call."

"I had to make sure it was safe before I could contact anyone."

"But in the meantime, look at you! I didn't hang out with the 'great' Sherlock Holmes for two years without picking up some things. I see the wedding ring on your finger. Who's the lucky girl?" he mocked.

Before Sherlock could answer, John cut him off. "Let's look at your dating history, shall we? The only person you ever showed the slightest interest in was nothing short of a professional hooker! So, where'd you find this one? More importantly, how much did you pay her?" he fumed.

Half an hour later, they both sat in Lestrade's office, sitting far away from one another, holding their bleeding noses. "What is it with this family?" Lestrade asked Sherlock. "Why does everyone have to punch everyone?"

John looked confused.

"My wife broke Sally Donovan's nose earlier," Sherlock explained, grinning.

He and John both turned to face one another, locking eyes and bursting into a fit of laughter.

"You should've seen her face," Sherlock got out in-between laughs.

"I'll leave you two alone," Lestrade said, getting up with a sigh.

After the laughter ended, John looked to Sherlock. "You swear that was the only way?"

"Yes, John."

"Alright, well, tell me everything."

Three hours later, John and Sherlock burst into 221B, laughing even harder than before.

"You worked a 9 to 5 job. Sherlock Holmes, having a normal life." John guffawed at the thought.

"But without it, I wouldn't have met her." Sherlock gestured over to his pregnant wife, who, along with Mrs. Hudson, was staring at the two, wide-eyed.

"Hi," Emily greeted, stepping forward. She attempted to hug John, as much as her growing bump would let her. "I'm Emily. Sherlock has told me so many good things about you."

John looked over to Sherlock, whispering. "She's lovely. Now I'm convinced money was involved."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Emily went to hug him as well. She kissed his cheek, whispering in his ear. "I think I'm about to go furniture shopping. You know, for that couch you'll be sleeping on for the next year. You made that poor old woman faint."

"I like her," John announced, having heard every word.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, you can't be that mad at me," Sherlock said, walking towards her.

She started tearing up. "I'm just being so silly. But if you ever do that to me again, Sherlock Holmes…"

"Never again," Sherlock agreed, hugging her loosely.

"Mrs. Hudson said we could live here," Emily said, hoping to lighten the mood.

"It'll be nice to have a little family here. No one's touched the place since you left. Same price as before," Mrs. Hudson added.

"We'll have to clean up before the baby arrives, and maybe get some more furniture…Mycroft told me he'll help out with a crib and we really have everything else we need from the baby shower," Emily noted.

Sherlock agreed, although he wasn't entirely happy about Mycroft helping. Still, he went ahead and wrote Mrs. Hudson a check for first and last months' rent, just as he had four years ago.

He and Emily both signed the papers in the scribbles they thought were signatures.

"Mrs. Hudson, is my bedroom the way I left it?" Sherlock asked.

"Exactly the same. Let me just go and wash the sheets…I don't want your wife to tire herself out, poor thing."

"Mrs. Hudson, it's fine, really. I can do it," Emily said.

"I'll do it," Sherlock announced, stepping past both of them and going straight for his room.

John and Mrs. Hudson stood there, dumbfounded.

"Sherlock…knows how to operate a washing machine?" John asked, incredulous.

"Of course he does. He never did the laundry before?"

"Never," Mrs. Hudson replied. "I think I'll go watch him to make sure he doesn't break my machine…" She excused herself, leaving only John and Emily.

"So, John, do you want to stay for dinner? It's not much, but I think I could probably manage to make something small with what we have right now."

"I actually need to go soon," John said, declining her offer. "Mycroft sort of kidnapped me from my job, and my girlfriend is probably worried. I'm supposed to have dinner with her parents tonight. But," he added, "Mary and I can probably have you and Sherlock over another night. Maybe tomorrow?"

Right then, Sherlock stepped back in with Mrs. Hudson.

"Since John's busy, I was thinking we could go out for dinner," Sherlock said, walking over to his wife and kissing her on the lips.

"I'm never going to get used to this," John mused.

"Shut up," Sherlock retorted, holding his wife in a tight hug.

"How are you not bursting into flames?" John jokingly asked Emily, still surprised that Sherlock was capable of being affectionate with anyone. He didn't even want to think about what Emily had done with Sherlock to get in her current state.

Emily just smiled in response to John's joke. John could tell this woman clearly brought out another side in Sherlock, a kinder, gentler one.

Sherlock excused himself, grabbing a suitcase. Emily figured he would be wanting to change out of his bloody shirt. She correctly assumed that Sherlock hadn't got quite as warm a welcome as he had expected.

When he came back, John decided to say goodbye. "Well," John began, "I have to be going soon. We're meeting Mary's parents at 8, and she's probably going to kill me…"

Doing something he had rarely ever done, John stepped to Sherlock, giving him a bear hug, which Sherlock actually returned. When John pulled away, much to his embarrassment, his eyes were filled with tears. "I'll see you soon, okay? We'll all have dinner soon," John said, trying to hide his obvious tears. "I'm glad you're back."

Sherlock nodded in agreement. "We'll have dinner soon," he reaffirmed. "Good luck with the proposal tonight," he added, acting as if it were obvious.

"I've been waiting for him to do that all day," John said, laughing, his tears clearing up as he went to give Mrs. Hudson a hug.

"Good luck," Emily said, hugging John as well. "We'll see you soon."

With that, John went on his way, leaving just Sherlock, Emily, and Mrs. Hudson alone in the flat.

"Well…" Sherlock began. He wasn't good in these situations. "I guess Emily and I are off." Emily gave him a look, as if he were missing something. "Mrs. Hudson, do you want to come with us?" he asked, finally understanding.

"No, dear, I'll just be around here. I'm sure you two want some privacy after such an eventful day. Besides, I need to catch up on my book club…"

Right as Emily and Sherlock were heading out, however, they heard a lot of commotion outside. A quick peek through the keyhole confirmed their fears. Photographers and reporters were lining the streets outside of 221B, hoping to catch a glimpse of the detective who had come back from the dead.

Emily thought quickly, grabbing her phone and typing fast. She then put her hair in a bun and put her reading glasses on. She even shimmied her wedding ring off her still swelling fingers and shoved it at Sherlock, to add to the effect. "Go out the back," she said. "I'll meet you at the restaurant."

He immediately knew what she was getting at, so he gave her a kiss on the cheek thanks and ran out the back of the café.

Emily took her jacket and covered up her bump, and taking a deep breath, stepped outside.

When she stepped out, the commotion died down a little, but not enough to her liking, so she loudly yelled in a London accent, "Attention, please."

The whole crowd looked to her. "Thank you." She gestured for a person with a microphone to come towards her. "I am Emily Daley, Mr. Holmes's lawyer, and on his behalf, I have an announcement to make. Obviously, he is alive and well. He just left Baker Street out the back about twenty minutes ago. In half an hour, he will be giving an impromptu press conference to answer all your questions at this address." She then read off the address of Mycroft's office, something she had just okayed with Sherlock's older brother just moments earlier.

"Now, please, leave in an orderly fashion," she commanded. "The other residents of 221B Baker Street have threatened to call the police on all of you for harassment and disturbing the peace, something I wholeheartedly support." She smirked a little. "Thank you for your time, and I hope to see you at the press conference shortly." She then stepped through the slew of frenzied reporters, all trying to gather their things and hail cabs. She continued walking for another two blocks, until she finally made it to Angelo's using Sherlock's texted directions. She found Sherlock sitting in a dark corner of the restaurant, having requested no special attention be given to him from Angelo.

"Impressive, Miss Daley," he complimented her as she took her hair down and took off her glasses.

"My ring?" she asked, holding her hand out.

He slipped it back on her finger as she sat down and began shrugging off her heavy coat.

"You look beautiful on camera, I may add," he said quietly.

"Thank you," she replied, taking his hands in hers. "You don't look so bad yourself."

"Think you'll get used to it?" he asked, stroking her thumb softly with his.

"It's not so bad. I just hope that when the baby comes, they'll leave us alone."

"I'll make sure of it," he promised, right as the waiter arrived to take their order.

After a long meal and a nice, quiet walk back to their new flat, they both plopped on the loveseat together, her head on his chest and his arms around her growing stomach.

Following a comfortable silence Emily said, "You know, John is going to be angry with you for this at some point. Right now, he's probably just thrilled you're back."

Sherlock nodded. "I know, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, I suppose."

"I'm just saying," Emily warned, "don't be surprised if he goes through a whole range of emotions in a matter of weeks or even days. I know I'd be a wreck if my best friend came back from the dead."

"If I really died, what would you do?" Sherlock asked, curious.

"Spend all the life insurance money and find a richer, younger man," she joked.

"Really."

"I don't know. I'd probably go insane," she confessed. "I don't remember a time when I wasn't with you, or at least I don't want to. So, don't die on me."

"I'll try my best."

"What would you do if I died?" she posed.

He hesitated. "I don't want to think about it," he responded finally. "They'd probably just have to bury me with you," he said, whispering.

She kissed his cheek silently. "You know, I got a present for you." She reached down and searched in her bag.

"Ta-da!" she announced, holding up some files she had swiped while he was talking to Lestrade earlier that day.

"I love you," he said excitedly.

"Love you, too," she replied. "Wanna get started?"

"As long as you're up to it."

"I'm always up for this. It's time Sherlock Holmes gets back to what he does best."

"Not without his right-hand woman," he said, smiling at her.

Early the next morning, Mrs. Hudson found them both piled up on the loveseat, fast asleep, files still in their hands. She covered them up, smiling when she saw how Sherlock was resting his head on his wife's shoulder, just like her husband had done so many years before.

"I'm glad Sherlock has someone to love him," she thought as she left.

* * *

**A/N: This is my interpretation of how John would react. He's good in bad situations and he's always very forgiving of Sherlock, although as Emily said, the initial happiness (after that punch of course) at having his best friend back will probably wear off and reveal some anger, just so everyone didn't think I was downplaying John's reaction. This is just how I saw it going down. That being said, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and I will try to post again ASAP. Thank you so much for the wonderful response I've been getting for this story, guys. I love you all. :)**


	14. Chapter 13

**Happy holidays everyone!**

* * *

That same morning, at 10 A.M., Emily strolled into 221B, casually carrying some groceries.

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock groaned as he was on his knees, busy scrubbing the inside of the refrigerator, where most of his experiments had just been left to rot.

"Hello would've worked, too," Emily replied, peeking into the fridge to check his progress.

"I asked you what time it was an hour ago."

"How long did it take you to realize I was gone this time?" Emily asked her husband, who was now working on getting some leftover bits of thumb off the main shelf.

"You left?" Sherlock asked, not even looking up.

"About an hour and a half ago."

"So not long then..."

"Sherlock, you can stop cleaning now."

He jumped up, kissing her cheek. "Is it my birthday?" he asked sarcastically.

"Relax, you're not off the hook. I just have something else for you to do."

He sighed. "What?"

"It's something we should've done a long time ago." She reached behind her for some paper and two pens.

"Baby names," he said, not even letting her explain.

She nodded. "Come on. It's better than cleaning." She led him over to the loveseat, sitting next to him. "Alright…I've been thinking. Why don't both of us just make a list of our favorite names and then compare and meet in the middle?"

"Alright," he agreed. "Ten?"

"Ten."

He grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen, and in a minute flat, he was done. She was only on her seventh. His brevity told her that either he wasn't very concerned with names and he just wanted to get it over with, or he had already been thinking on the subject quite a bit. She guessed it was a mixture of both.

"Alright," she said after another minute. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"I think that game was what got us into this situation in the first place," Sherlock noted wryly.

She laughed a little as they exchanged lists.

"None in common," she noted. "Hamish?" She cocked an eyebrow.

"John's middle name," Sherlock answered quietly.

"It's alright…" Emily thought on it for a moment. "I have Henry on my list. What about Henry Hamish Holmes?"

They looked at one another. "H. H. Holmes," they both said at the same time.

"No son of mine will be named after a serial killer. No more H names," Emily decreed, a statement Sherlock seemed to agree with.

"What do you think of just naming him after John? Johnathan Holmes, or just John Holmes," Emily suggested after a minute of silence.

"Porn star." That was all Sherlock needed to say.

"Well, you see the name at the top of my list. Why don't we just name him after you?"

He rolled his eyes. "No." As much as he held himself in high regard, he didn't think himself the type of figure people should name their children after, even his own child.

"I like Jamie," he said thoughtfully.

"James Moriarty," she responded.

"Dammit. Everyone called him Jim." Still, he didn't want his son's name even resembling the tiny Irish pint of criminal insanity known as Jim Moriarty, so he crossed Jamie off his list.

"Benedict," she suggested.

"I don't like that," he replied with a grimace. "Not at all. Besides, don't all Americans hate Benedict Arnold?"

She sighed, taking the name off her list. "14 names left."

They went on like this for some time, until they had the pool narrowed down to just three names.

"I could live without that one," Emily said as she pointed to a name on her list that Sherlock wasn't too fond of.

"Then it's settled," he said.

"I think it's missing something, though, don't you?" she asked, thinking. Suddenly, she scratched a name onto the paper rather quickly, looking at him when she was done.

"It's perfect," he agreed.

"No changing our minds now. Shake on it?"

"Kiss me and it's a deal," he responded.

She complied, noting when it was done, "Nice doing business with you, Mr. Holmes. Now, we're both back to cleaning." She smirked at him.

"The kitchen is almost done. I just need to finish the fridge."

"Okay. I'll start on cleaning up the living room." She began to dust and vacuum the furniture heavily, going outside every so often to shake cushions or rugs. She put all of Sherlock's things – the items he hadn't collected after his fall so as to not arouse suspicion – in several very large cardboard boxes after dusting all of them. Everything else the two owned was in boxes anyway, boxes that were being shipped to London right at that very moment.

By the time they were both finished, the living room and the kitchen were both sparkling and quite bare, besides furniture and a couple of bookshelves. When the groceries were put up and Sherlock's things were placed neatly back on shelves and in cabinets, the flat actually started looking more like home.

"This is the cleanest it's been since I moved in," Sherlock mused. "Bedroom next?"

"Bedroom," she agreed. "Mrs. Hudson said she would clean our bathroom for us. Said some of those chemicals were too harsh on a pregnant lady."

"She's probably right. Well, here we go," he said, leading her to his old bedroom.

"Surprisingly neat," Emily observed. They immediately got to work, wanting this part of the moving process over with. She dusted, and he took care of floors and put some more of his things away neatly, much to his chagrin. When he came across Irene Adler's old mobile phone, he didn't know what to do with it. He didn't want to keep it, as he considered that chapter of his life to have been closed a long time ago. He had clearly moved on, and from what he had heard, Irene was married to some rich American diplomat, under an assumed name, of course. He just didn't want Emily to even see that he had even kept the object. She knew the story, but not that he had kept the phone.

So, he very stealthily tried to throw it away, knowing that if anyone did find it, it would be of no use anymore because the content had been stripped long ago. As he went to toss the object in a garbage bag, however, he heard a voice speak up.

"You don't have to hide that, you know. Just toss it and move on," Emily said softly.

"I didn't want you to think…" he began.

"I don't," she lied. She had never been jealous before because according to Sherlock, she had been the first woman he had ever showed any sentiment towards. Considering his usual nature, she took that as one of the greatest compliments he could have ever given her. He had thought most women to be distracting and impractical, but not her. Not his Emily. No, she was so simple and yet so complex. The very fiber of her being was a paradox – a million little filaments, that when put together, made no sense at all. That's why he loved her like he did. On the outside, she was a pretty American who liked to read and solve cases and who laughed at her own jokes, but on the inside, there were reasons. Reasons why she read, why she laughed, why she liked detectives in funny hats. Reasons that he could never truly grasp. She was so simple yet such an intellectual and emotional being, a force to be reckoned with. And she never even realized it, making her existence all the more extraordinary.

She just knew that he thought she was special, his pet he sometimes called her, when it was just the two of them. She knew he secretly saved the notes she had packed neatly into his lunch every day. She knew he kept pictures of her in his wallet. She knew he never took his wedding ring off. She paid attention. For that very reason, to see that he had given any other woman besides her an ounce of sentiment, it truly hurt.

So, she shed a singular, tiny tear. "Damn hormones," she mumbled to herself, trying to catch herself before the fall, before the levee broke.

"Em." He only called her that when he knew he had to be gentle.

"It's not a big deal," she replied, her faux lack of concern only making her cry more. "I'm being very immature," she scolded herself aloud.

He tossed the object in question in the trash and calmly walked over to her, hugging her around the waist.

"You know you're the only woman I have eyes for."

She nodded against his chest.

"Then what's wrong?" he asked genuinely.

"It's just…you kept it. Sentiment," she replied, shedding another tear. "I thought I was the only one who you ever had that type of feeling for."

"I kept that phone way before I ever even knew you. And I left it here. If it had truly meant something to me, wouldn't I have found some way to take it to Ireland with me? Trust me, Irene Adler is not even a thought for me anymore," he reassured her.

"But…" She struggled for words. "I just thought I was the only one, ever. I don't know – it meant something to me. That I could make Sherlock Holmes, a self-described sociopath, feel anything. It just made me feel…special."

"Now I'm seeing it," he said slowly. He still wasn't very good in this area. He knew how to love, but not how to comfort. "You're still special. You're my wife. You're about to be the mother of my child. You leave me little notes around the house and you rub my head and sing to me when I'm tired. You always check to make sure my coffee tastes right and you steal case files for me to look at. You broke Sally Donovan's nose. I've wanted someone to punch her for years. And look, you're carrying my oversized child around in your stomach and you get sick and your skin stretches and you don't even complain. I don't think Irene Adler has ever done any of that. One camera phone does not even come close to everything you do for me and to how I feel about you. So, please, never again think that some silly little 'recreational scolder' can even come close to my wife, because no woman ever will. You've always been my little pet," he said affectionately, silently kissing the top of her head. "You always will be. That is, if you still want to be?"

"Of course." By now she had stopped crying. "I'm sorry. I overreacted. Thank you for that." She knew it probably hadn't been easy for him to talk about his feelings; it never was.

"Better?" he asked, pressing her against his chest still.

"Better," she agreed, hugging him back equally hard. "If it's alright with you, I think once we got done in here, I'm going to take a nap. The baby and I are exhausted."

He agreed, quickly putting the rest of his things away while she continued dusting his furniture and pictures. The last task, something they did together, was making up the bed with the fresh sheets and comforter Mrs. Hudson had spent a great part of the previous night washing.

She changed into a large white t-shirt of hers and some of Sherlock's pajama bottoms, settling into their new bed, sinking into the cool sheets.

"This is lovely," she commented to Sherlock, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting on her to get comfortable. "Wake me up in an hour, will you?"

"I will," he responded. "Get some rest." With that, he kissed her cheek and slipped out the door, turning the light off after him.

For once, he actually kept up with the time, waking her up as peacefully as he could an hour later on the dot.

"You know we're going to John and Mary's later," she reminded him, stretching.

"Do we have to? There'll be people there," he complained.

"Just us and John and Mary."

"Can't they come over here?"

"Sherlock, he's your best friend."

He sighed. "What time?"

"6:30. So," she began, trying to soften him up, "we have about 3 hours to ourselves. And we do need to officially make up…" Her voice trailed off suggestively.

"I guess we probably should christen the place," he mused, leaning in for a kiss.

"Exactly what I was thinking," she replied, smiling against his lips as she pulled him onto their new bed.


	15. Author's Note

**PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN SERIES 3 EPISODE 1, THE EMPTY HEARSE.**

**YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.**

Well, I know this isn't technically a chapter, but I just had to share my thoughts with all of you about the most recent episode of _Sherlock_ (humor me, none of my friends have watched it yet and I'm not that active on tumblr, so I need to talk about it with someone. :P)

So, to be honest, I thought the episode was bloody brilliant. I've seen mixed reactions, critics seem to love it, most everyone on tumblr does too, but I've also heard several very bad reviews about how "The Reichenbach Fall" set so much up and "The Empty Hearse" just disappointed. Well, as Sherlock notes, everyone's a critic. Everyone also has an opinion, and I do respect that, but as a viewer, I thought the episode was a funny, earnest, and kind of heartwarming love letter to the fans. Gatiss's use of fanfiction was definitely the most excellent part of the episode. It was hilarious and kind of hot (that Sherlolly kiss!) and it kind of gave a knowing nudge and wink to the fans to remind them that they were not forgotten during the hiatus. Plus, so brilliantly and yet so subtly breaking the fourth wall was, well, genius.

Now, I noticed a lot of people thought the episode was too lighthearted, a factor I honestly didn't even consider while watching. Sherlock has always made me laugh, from Sherlock's public faux pas ("Not good?") to John's never-ending reiteration that he is, indeed, straight. But, let me pose this question, readers, if "The Empty Hearse" was completely serious and dark, would that have been worth watching? I would think if that were the case, the episode would've just been completely depressing. I can't even imagine the hurt I would feel if my best friend faked his death and didn't tell me, but it is Sherlock and John. We knew John would inevitably forgive Sherlock, and I think Gatiss handled it wonderfully with humor to lighten up some of the darker moments until then. I personally greatly appreciate a good, strong sense of humor as hopefully you can see sometimes in my writing.

Now, to the other issue. Was Sherlock a complete bastard in this episode? Yes and no. While Sherlock laughing at John in the carriage after switching off the bomb was awful and Sherlock's greatly inflated sense of self-importance (even for Sherlock) was a little ridiculous ("What life? I've been away."), I think this is absolutely the most human we have ever seen Sherlock. First, we see him getting beaten to a bloody pulp, which, okay, was kind of hot, because, well, shirtless sweaty Benedict Cumberbatch is shirtless sweaty Benedict Cumberbatch. This isn't an emotional thing, but from the reactions/screams Sherlock is giving, we see that he is human. He feels pain (physically, in this case) just like the rest of us. I've always heard the quote that Sherlock Holmes is a man trying to be a god, and in this case, the beating makes him all the more human. He suffers and feels just like the rest of us. According to Cumberbatch, Sherlock will be a little jaded and off his game this season, and I think that beating – showing that Sherlock is indeed just a man – is just the beginning. Seeing Sherlock's normal, everyday parents (Mama and Papa Cumberbatch!) also helped add to the effect. He is just a man who came from normal people and no matter what he might think, he is not some sort of god. This all makes me think Sherlock is being set up for some kind of fall (No pun intended. Too soon?).

Sherlock then tries to defuse the situation with John with humor, which is so human, and something I have done so many times. He tries to encourage Mycroft to make some friends so he won't be so lonely, noting (in a lesson he surely learned from John Watson) that just because one is different doesn't mean they can't have friends. Sherlock didn't mind that he was different and neither did John. Something a lot of people haven't seemed to mention is the fact that Sherlock did comfort a heartbroken woman (although he seemed exasperated, he still did it) and he got very angry with the man who broke her heart, showing he does have some awareness of human nature, however little that may be. Sherlock has begun letting his emotions slip as well, too, I think. He is shown to be upset at John's refusal to join him in solving cases again, and we see that when he hears John's voice in his head, reminding him of his old friend.

Sherlock's interactions with Molly (who I'll get to in a minute) also show the newfound kindness he was starting to show in series 2. He congratulates her on her engagement and kisses her on the cheek gently and very genuinely, telling her she deserves it. And is just me, or does he seem a teensy bit disappointed at the engagement ring? Time will tell…Anyway, the big thing in this episode for Sherlock was that he freaking jumped into a fire to save John. He dropped his fish and chips, stole a motorcycle, and I repeat _jumped_ into a fire to save John. Heroic. Hot, both literally and figuratively. And it shows just how deep his love for John (friendly or other, I'll leave that up to you) truly is.

The big thing that most people complained about was Sherlock's actions in the carriage. Yes, he was an asshole for making John think they were about to die. Laughing at John didn't make it any better. While Sherlock is starting to feel and be more kind, remember, he is inherently a sociopath. He still doesn't have a real grasp for human emotions, even though he seems to understand some of them. Manipulation is in the sociopath's job description, and I'll admit, it was just plain mean to do that to John right after coming back and devastating him for the second time in two years. But, if you think about it, John was probably stubborn enough to never acknowledge his forgiveness of Sherlock if Sherlock hadn't pushed him into it. No, that is not a character flaw for John at all, I think he deserves the right to be stubborn about it after all he went through. I understand, it is hard to admit you forgive someone when they have truly _hurt_ you. I also think, if you look at it from a different perspective, Sherlock is still being manipulative, but that is truly how much he wants John to forgive him. The laughing may just be a cover up (although I doubt it) for how relieved he felt. Like he was trying to take away from the seriousness of it all so as to not make John think he was truly desperate for forgiveness. If that makes sense.

The most anticipated part of the episode, perhaps after Sherlock and John's reunion, was seeing how Sherlock faked his death. Two years, and we finally get an explanation. I'll say it again, the wild theories they showed from Anderson and the Scottish fangirl were absolutely hilarious. It's kind of left up to the viewer to decide if Sherlock was telling the truth about his fall, and while his version is completely plausible, we'll probably never know, for two reasons.

1. Moffat is evil (see the entire Moffat/Matt Smith era of _Doctor Who_). I know he didn't write the episode, but I'm sure he had some say.

2. No matter what Gatiss wrote, someone was bound to be disappointed. He would never make everyone happy, so it's best just to leave it all up to interpretation.

Anderson representing pretty much the entire fandom was also, in my opinion, fantastic. It was mad, it was wild, and it was funny. Terrific acting from Jonathan Aris. Now some think Gatiss was making fun of us, but come on, I've seen numerous jokes on tumblr the past few years joking about how us Sherlockians had lost our minds during the hiatus, and yeah, pretty much. I mean, come on, guys, it's all in good fun. Gatiss and Moffat know very well that without us fans, _Sherlock_ wouldn't have made it this far. The whole episode was for the fans, really. I mean, it had fanfiction, shirtless Cumberbatch,"not dead", sassy Mary, great humor, lots of feels, and if they make one tiny little joke about the fans, let them. It's kind of teasing, like "We know we drove you mad, but God, it was funny." Some may disagree and say it was mean or whatever, and while I don't know about you, I tease my closest friends like that all the time. It seemed like more of an affectionate tease than a "You guys are losers" thing.

If you're still with me, hopefully, then just one more thing. Character development. Molly's was obviously the most prominent. She got more airtime than probably ever before, and Molly seemed to have two different vibes going on at once. She is engaged and has moved on, but that look she gave Sherlock while he was walking away, I know that look. The look of unrequited love. So, in my opinion, she definitely still feels for Sherlock, but she's still engaged. That being said, I also think she has a secret. Her comment about sociopaths being her type, although she could be talking about Sherlock and to a lesser degree Jim Moriarty, who was a full-fledged psychopath, maybe meant her fiancé isn't who we think he is, and his close resemblance to Sherlock and Sherlock's knowing glance at him seem to mean something. We'll have to see, but the look Lestrade gave Molly when he found out she was engaged, I mean, you could tell he was jealous. I can see from the trailer for the next episode that they attend John and Mary's wedding together, and honestly, I'd ship that.

Mary Morstan was a pleasant surprise. I was expecting not to like her, but with the line "I agree, I'm the best thing that could have happened to you," I fell in love. I hope she sticks around. Still, she definitely has a secret, too, based on Sherlock's deductions about her and the fact that the kidnappers texted her first and she knew how to read in code and creepy glasses guy kept replaying her screaming in that video at the end. I don't think she's evil or hired by anyone to hurt John, but I do think she has a past that will be definitely be explored.

All in all wonderful episode. Sorry that was so long. I just had to get it all out. Now, taking care of business.

1. If you live in the US like I do, there are numerous live stream links and instructions for downloading/watching series 3 at your convenience on tumblr. Just search the Sherlock tag and they're bound to come up. Everyone's browser and preferences are different, so I'll just leave it at that.

2. I know a lot happened in that episode, but obviously, even though it doesn't feel like it right now because of post-episode shock, this fanfic will continue on its normal path, disregarding all future episodes of Sherlock. I might throw a couple important things from the series in, but nothing so major it will change the story completely. The story is about Sherlock falling in love and changing because of it, and although I really wish it would/could happen, I don't see Moffat and Gatiss going down that road for the show, even though they could surprise us. They're quite good at that.

So, thank you for sticking in there. I know this was extremely long, and to anyone (hopefully anybody) who has actually finished this long rant, I thank you. It felt nice to get all that out there. I'll only do this once, probably, unless something so stupendous happens that I have to talk about it with you guys as fellow Sherlockians. I love all my readers and I have the most immense respect for you as we are all a part of a great fandom. Now, please, if you could just humor me once more, if you have anything to say about what I've said in this note or the episode or something to add or a different opinion or whatever, please feel free to comment in the reviews section, although I do ask that you label your comments with some sort of spoiler warning for other people. I love hearing opinions. :) Thank you and goodnight all. xx


	16. Chapter 14

**Hi, guys! Sorry I'm a little late with this. It's been a very busy week, but here's an extra long chapter to hopefully make up for it a little bit. :) Now, I'm warning you, there are a couple references to Series 3 (which is fantastic, btw), some of which were probably subconscious now that I think about it, and some of which I just couldn't help but to add in, but don't be alarmed readers, I didn't add too much in. I certainly didn't add in anything major, just a couple case references and a part of a conversation between Sherlock and John in the middle. Anyways, I'll shut up now, and I hope you enjoy. :)**

* * *

That night, after dinner, Emily and Mary were in the kitchen talking while Sherlock and John were busy scouting for a case in the living room.

"They're thick as thieves, just how he described it," Emily said, helping Mary load dishes into the dishwasher.

"John is just so happy Sherlock is back," Mary commented. "When we first met, he was so depressed after Sherlock's death."

"But you know why he did it," Emily interjected.

"Oh, yes," Mary answered, smiling. "That's why I like Sherlock so much already. He and I both have John's best interest at heart, granted Sherlock shows it in a much different way." Her mouth once again twisted into a playful smile.

"He's a good man, he just doesn't show it too often," Emily conceded, laughing. "He'd kill me if I ever said it out loud to anyone, but he's a wonderful husband and friend."

"And soon to be dad, eh?" Mary asked, touching Emily's stomach.

"Our little peanut will be here soon," Emily said, grinning down at her bump.

* * *

"So a pregnant wife?" John still couldn't believe it.

"Mhmmmm," Sherlock answered absentmindedly, too caught up in a case he was reading off the newly reestablished blog.

"How'd you two meet again?" John asked, having never quite heard the full story.

"She was the secretary at the office where I worked in Ireland," he replied curtly.

John was still confused. It was so unlike the great Sherlock Holmes to go after anyone who wasn't outwardly as intelligent and cunning as he was.

"But how'd you two, you know, get together?" John questioned.

"I got glass in my cheek, she drove me to the hospital, she's brilliant, we end up solving cases together…you can figure it out from there." He was too busy searching for a new case to pay attention to questions he thought were meaningless. It didn't matter how he and Emily had met, just that they had met.

John became simultaneously concerned and confused. Had Sherlock replaced him with Emily? Sherlock had never once said John was brilliant. Was this how it was going to be from now on? Holmes and Holmes, no Watson and Holmes? No, no, he thought. If Emily was truly John's replacement then Sherlock would be looking at cases with her, not with John.

He desperately searched for something, anything to say. "So…how's the sex?" Perhaps he shouldn't have phrased it that way, but he had been curious as to how a virgin – a cold, seemingly untouchable virgin, at that – became a man who couldn't keep his hands off his pregnant wife. Sherlock was always looking at her, touching her, whispering to her in some way.

"What?" Sherlock asked, popping his head up from John's laptop. "Is this what I supposedly have to talk about in the presence of other men? If so, I'd rather pass."

"Come on," John urged. Now he was really curious.

Sherlock saw that John was unlikely to let the subject matter go. He sighed, then spoke. "We…have sex, if that's what you mean."

"Obviously," John replied, stealing one of Sherlock's favorite responses.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "It's good sex." He didn't have anything to compare it to, but he wasn't about to admit that. "Wonderful." That's all he was going to say about the matter.

John laughed heartily. "So you tried it and you liked it. You really, really like it," he teased.

"All I'm going to say about that," Sherlock mumbled, trying to focus his attention back on the cases in their inbox. 100 emails in the past two days, like he had never been gone.

"There's that one about the elephant," John mentioned, leaning over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Hmmm." He paused thoughtfully. "Sounds interesting. It's at least a 9. Emily!" he called.

"Wait, why are you calling Emily…?" John began.

Sherlock ignored his question.

"Give me a second to waddle in the room," Emily answered, arriving a few seconds later with Mary right behind her.

"Emily, are you up for a case tonight?" Sherlock asked.

"Su…." she began, then stopped, studying John's clearly disappointed face. "Actually, you know what, Mary wanted me to help her look at some things for the wedding and I'm really tired anyway…"

Mary quickly nodded, seeing what Emily was getting at. "That's right…I need help with my colors."

Sherlock remained oblivious. "Right then. Well, John, are you up to it?"

John understood what Emily was doing as well, part of him grateful for her thoughtfulness and the other part not wanting her sympathy. Sherlock had clearly moved on with his life. Still, John nodded his head yes in response to Sherlock's question, already feeling the blood pumping hard and fast in his veins, just like the good old days.

"See you boys later," Emily called as Sherlock rushed around, grabbing his things and then kissing her a quick goodbye on the cheek.

"Don't wait up!" he warned her before loudly running into the hallway and shouting, John following right behind him.

"The game is on!" he shouted.

* * *

After a whole night of investigating and another four hours spent in the custody of British government, Sherlock and John had cracked the case.

"Can you believe that?" Sherlock asked, stepping out of Mycroft's office after his older brother had gotten the two out of trouble once more. "I mean, two dead bodies, an elephant, an empty house…and it's all a government plot about a score to settle. They steal an elephant, cause a big scene in the middle of a peaceful neighborhood just to arouse suspicion about a professional hit so they can remain in the clear and make the whole of Britain think the murders were done by the visiting Indian ministers, who happen to carry a bloody elephant with them as a gift. They drug the ministers, claim they never received the elephant, commit the murder, place the ministers in the house with the elephant so they just think they got drunk and murdered someone and took an elephant along for the ride. Really, not the best plot…"

"Do you think they'll arrest Lord Milverton? He clearly planned the whole thing," John threw in.

"Obviously. The Indian Prime Minister was sleeping with Lord Milverton's wife. So, he plans the hit on two people who knew about the affair and never bothered to tell him. He gets some willing participants and then frames the man by causing a huge scene with an elephant. They knew the public would be stupid enough to think 'Oh, the government couldn't have done it because they wouldn't be daft enough to leave an elephant at the crime scene.'" He smacked his forehead in frustration at the idiocy of the general public, then continued talking. "Mycroft said it will be taken care of, but we must never speak of this again." He began to mimic his older brother's voice. "'We don't need bad press right now, Sherlock.'"

John laughed and looked at his watch. "Right then, it's 12 P.M. on a Saturday. What do you want to do?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "I really need to go check on Emily, make sure she's okay. She's quite pregnant," he said, pointing out the obvious.

"Right." John understood, but he couldn't help but feel misplaced, unmissed. Sherlock didn't have a wife or a child before, and John always thought he was more likely to ever get married than Sherlock. The whole situation would definitely take some getting used to, and while John knew Sherlock had responsibilities now, he missed the old Sherlock, the one who could actually spend time with him.

"You're being selfish," John thought to himself. "The man has a wife who's bloody seven months pregnant. You're not the most important thing to him anymore," he reminded himself. Perhaps it would have been different if he had actually seen Sherlock during the past two years. Sherlock was like a drug. The first time John met him, he was hooked, a junkie always searching for another high, that sudden blood rush to the head, the synapses always awake, always seeking that same old familiar feeling. Then, withdrawals. He'd gotten used to it, but now, _now_, Sherlock was back and he was back to his old ways, trying to get a hit whenever possible. It was like placing an addict in a locked room filled to the brim with their drug of choice and expecting them to come out clean as a whistle, pure as the night sky. It just didn't happen.

"I'll see you soon, John," Sherlock said, right as they reached 221B Baker Street. He turned to place his key in the lock, figuring his friend was already heading back down the street, possibly already in a taxi.

"Sherlock?" John asked meekly.

The tall detective turned around, surprised. "You aren't home yet?"

"It's been barely thirty seconds," John reminded his friend, laughing somewhat nervously. "Sherlock…I've been thinking. Are we still going to solve cases together, you know, now that you have a family?" He hated talking about his feelings almost as much as Sherlock.

"Of course we will." Sherlock scanned John's face carefully, looking confused.

"So Emily's…not my replacement?"

"I still want to solve cases with her. She is my wife. But I will solve just as many cases with you. The only reason I did not ask last night is because Emily said that you and Mary might want us out of your hair to celebrate your engagement," he replied coolly. "It will be 50/50," he promised, acting like solving a case with him was some sort of great unmatched gift from the heavens.

"Good," John said, nodding, trying to keep an air of casual cool.

"Good." Sherlock turned back around to open the door.

"Sherlock – one more thing."

"Yes, John?"

"Now, you know I'm getting married soon." Sherlock nodded, not quite sure where this was heading. "And I need a best man…" He stopped, hoping Sherlock would get the hint so he wouldn't have to actually say it.

"Yes, go on."

"…And I was hoping you could do it. You're my best friend, so it just makes sense that you would be my best man," he said rather quickly and lowly, trying to get that part of his proposal over with.

Sherlock stood there for several minutes, unmoving, his facial expression never changing.

Finally, he bobbed his head up and down. "Yes, I'll do it," he said rather slowly and rather strangely.

"That's good. Good," John replied, again trying to keep from showing the tiniest fragment of emotion.

"Yeah. I'll see you later." With that, Sherlock ducked into Baker Street, dashing up the steps. He found Emily listening to some of their favorite classical music while making herself a sandwich for lunch.

"I'm back," he announced, wrapping his arms around her while she worked.

"I noticed," she said, not even looking up. He could tell she was smiling, though. He could always tell.

"Miss me?" he asked, taking off his coat and tossing it on a chair.

"I did," she answered, turning around and hugging him. "That bed wasn't quite the same without you here. I had no one to stick my cold feet on," she joked.

He smiled, then looked at her curiously. "Would you say I'm your best friend?"

"Of course."

"This is strange, indeed…." he muttered to himself.

"What's strange?"

"John just said I was his best friend. Then he asked me to be his best man at his wedding." He cocked an eyebrow.

She smiled warmly. "That's sweet." She carefully scrutinized his face. "Why does that bother you?"

"I just never expected to be anyone's best friend."

"Well, who do you consider to be your best friends?"

"You and John," he answered quickly. "You always have been."

She continued. "If you consider us your best friends, then why is it so strange that we reciprocate? You are in love with me, and I reciprocate, and John clearly values you as much as you do him, so why is it confusing that we would consider you to be our best friend?"

He thought some more. She had always been excellent at reasoning. "Good point," was all he could say.

"Now, do you want some lunch?" she asked, reaching for another slice of bread to start yet another sandwich.

"You mean that one isn't for me?" He pointed to one sandwich out of the two she had already made.

"I'm eating for two, remember?"

"Not really. That phrase is so overused, probably started by pregnant women who just wanted to eat more due to their expanding sto…." He stopped when he saw she had a knife in her hand. "Never mind. Carry on."

"I was just about to cut my sandwiches in half," she said, almost too innocently. "But it really would've been a damn shame if my knife had slipped…." she began, joking.

He rolled his eyes, pulling up a kitchen chair. "You know I think you're lovely."

"I know." She nodded her head in smug agreement, laughing, then turned around, continuing her sandwich making. "You know I have a doctor's appointment Monday morning. New obstetrician," she said, clicking her tongue.

"I'll be there. Who'd Mycroft find for you?"

"The same guy Kate Middleton is using. I'll _have_ to ask how I compare to the Duchess," she declared with both feigned emphasis and excitement.

He grimaced. "Kidding," she reminded him, noting that after almost two years together, he still had a hard time understanding some of her jokes.

Changing the subject, Sherlock made an observation. "You know Mary is going to ask you to be a bridesmaid."

"Yes. I have a feeling she and I are going to be good friends," Emily noted, handing Sherlock a plate and settling in the chair opposite him, both her mouth and eyes wide and ready for the first of her sandwiches.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. "Client," Sherlock said, getting up.

"Please just let me be able to finish my sandwich…" Emily mumbled, almost like a prayer.

Lestrade was dashing up the stairs, pushing his way past Mrs. Hudson. "Mate, I need your help…"

"I knew this was coming." Sherlock searched in his pockets. "Here's the name and number of a good divorce lawyer." He handed Lestrade the card he had in his pocket since he had seen him last.

Greg began to speak, but Sherlock cut him off. "You're right, the baby isn't yours. Not by a long shot. Would you like to know who the real father is?"

"Sherlock." Emily was now standing beside him, looking alarmed. "Greg, do you want to sit down?"

Lestrade obliged, sitting on their loveseat, his head in his hands.

"How'd you find out?" Emily asked, sitting down next to him. She had known the baby wasn't his, either, but she had made Sherlock agree to not get involved, citing that it was none of their business. She didn't want to break up a marriage.

"My car's in the shop, so I used hers to take Timmy to piano lessons…"

"And she just left the phone in the glove compartment of the car, probably in a subconscious effort to tell you about her affair…" Sherlock added in.

Emily gave Sherlock a piercing look. "And then what, Greg?" she asked in a quiet, soothing voice.

"I was looking for a Kleenex. Sherlock's right, it was exactly where he said it was. I shouldn't have looked on it…" He paused, starting to tear up. "We had our differences, but…" He continued his story. "I looked at her messages. All from…" He stopped to awkwardly clear his throat. "'Love-monkey.' I am definitely not 'love-monkey'!"

"Yes, your wife has quite a different nickname for you…" Sherlock said.

"Sherlock!" Emily scolded. "Not good."

"There were a lot of messages, right around the time I thought we conceived the baby. They were always talking about meeting up in sketchy hotels….what if," he began, his voice breaking, "I'm not the father?"

Emily sighed sympathetically, patting Lestrade on the back. "Take it from here," she mouthed at Sherlock.

"Greg…" Sherlock started, feeling understanding as well. "I'm afraid the baby is not yours…I would get into how I know, but I suppose now isn't the best time for that."

"Is it the P.E. teacher's?" Greg asked, starting to really cry.

Sherlock strained the muscles in his neck, then spoke quietly. "Try the piano teacher…"

"Bastard."

"I would go ahead and pack my things and move out if I were you. Call the divorce lawyer right now."

"You can stay with us," Emily threw in. "John's old bedroom is as good as new and no one is using it…"

Lestrade nodded. "Thanks, but I have a brother not too far from here. I can stay with him until I get everything sorted." His face went from upset to determination as he stood up, somewhat uneasily.

"Now, now, don't do anything rash…" Emily warned.

"Why the hell not?" Lestrade was just purely angry now.

"Black belt," Sherlock and Emily both said at the same time.

Lestrade sighed, sitting back down.

He stayed there for several hours, alternatively using Sherlock and Emily and Mrs. Hudson as shoulders to cry on.

"Bring me my sandwich," Emily mouthed at Sherlock at one point.

At 7 P.M., Lestrade was sitting on their couch, snuggled up in a blanket with some tea, watching crap telly as Emily and Sherlock prepared dinner.

"I thought he was going to stay at his brother's," Sherlock hissed at her as he was chopping up some onion.

"He wasn't at home and Greg doesn't have a key," Emily reminded him. "He can stay here for a few nights."

Sherlock started chopping harder and more aggressively, right as Mrs. Hudson popped back in for another moment.

"Oo-hoo. You have another guest." Mrs. Hudson quickly left the room, trying to avoid having to listen to Lestrade sob again.

"Hello, Molly," Emily called from the kitchen as Sherlock sighed and hung his head down low.

"Hello," Molly greeted, stepping into their kitchen shyly.

Emily elbowed Sherlock. "Hi, Molly," he said, faking a quick smile then getting back to the task at hand.

"I just…I brought some files for Sherlock. On the death of the guardsman."

"Right, yes. Thank you, Molly," Sherlock said, turning on his heels and grabbing the file out of her hand.

"Cooking cottage pie, is it?" Molly asked, trying to make conversation.

"Yes," Emily said, smiling. "Would you like to stay for dinner?"

"Oh no, I couldn't," Molly replied.

"Oh come on, we insist," Emily urged. "There'll be plenty." She gave Sherlock a pressing look, knowing that he would be looking at her.

"Yes, we insist," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. "Why can't I be alone with my wife for one night?" he thought to himself, not even considering the fact that they had been apart for only one night.

"Alright," Molly agreed.

"Just make yourself at home," Emily invited, gesturing towards the living room. "Be gentle on Greg," she said, whispering. "His wife…" That was all she needed to say.

"I'm Emily and I have to be nice to everyone who comes in my flat because I'm an American and from the South and that's what we do and aren't I just so cute," Sherlock mocked as Molly walked away.

"Dead on," Emily said. "I am rather cute."

He slanted his eyes at her. "You've made me be social now for two nights in a row."

"Oh, Sherlock…" She nudged him playfully. "You couldn't stop talking about these people when it was just the two of us."

He groaned, knowing she was right. "But…"

"No buts. One night won't kill you. We'll get alone time, I promise," she whispered. "We'll solve a nice case together."

"Promise?"

"I promise," she declared.

After a long night of food and talking, they all sat in Sherlock and Emily's living room, Lestrade in considerably better spirits and Molly actually not focusing on Sherlock for once.

"Give them more wine," Sherlock whispered in Emily's ear. "I don't think I've ever liked them this much."

Emily laughed. "I think they're good." She pointed over to the loveseat, where Lestrade and Molly lay snuggled together in a blanket, both falling fast asleep.

"Place a bet?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"50 quid says they're a couple by tomorrow morning," Emily said. It was all she and Sherlock's money, but it was still fun.

"I say at least next week."

"We'll see," Emily said ominously.

"In the meantime, I say we get out of here in case we see some things we don't want to see…" Sherlock suggested.

"I agree. This is the best plan I've had in ages," Emily commented as she grabbed her coat. "We brought two lonely people together."

"We're going to have to throw out our loveseat, aren't we?" Sherlock grumbled, closing the door behind them.

* * *

**So, what do you guys think? Reviews would be highly appreciated. :) **


	17. An Open Letter

**An Open Letter**

Okay. Readers, please bear with me. I have thought about what I am going to say here for several hours, and I have tried to come up with the most poignant and mature response I can. I normally would not do this, but I myself and I'm sure many others are quite offended, or will be, and I need to address that because this is ultimately my story and I feel it is my responsibility to deal with a matter such as this.

If you are reading this and wondering, "What the hell is she talking about?", look at the review that was posted to this story earlier (and subsequently reported by me).

"Sorry to sound offensive, but as an English teen, I have to agree with the your statement. Don't take it personally, it's just that most of us get pissed at the fact that we all have 'British' accents, (Welsh, Irish, Scottish and English accents are all incredibly different, and we don't all sound like posh twats either. It would be like saying a Texan accent sounds like a Canadian accent, it's just a load of bs), that most Americans don't understand sarcasm, American comedy shows are mostly awful, the differences between American and English grammar are huge, most American accents irritate us, and God knows how many other things.

Sorry about the rant and probably really offending you and countless other Americans.

But I do love this so :D"

I normally am a thinker, not a feeler. I am very thick-skinned. But when I see something that is just purely hateful as I believe the aforementioned review to be, I cannot just sit back and let it be. Some of you may also think, "Why not just report it and move on?" Well, normally, I am an adherent of the idea of having a stiff upper lip, but I cannot let this one go. Not because of myself. You can say what you want to me. But the majority of my readers are indeed American, and while I think you have the right to say what you please, it does not mean I have to support what you say or that I cannot say what I think as well, especially if what _you_ say risks offending _my_ readers. All of my readers, no matter their nationality, make me feel special. You take time out of your day to read what I have to say. That's important to me, and I never want any of my readers to feel like they cannot come here as an escape or a means of dealing with all the bad stuff going on their life or whatever without feeling offended by some person's hateful comments.

"Hateful?" you say. Well, yeah. See, I could might understand if said person had said "Oh, well, I don't like Americans because of their politics or the way they always get involved in everything." Okay, cool. But saying that you dislike Americans because of the way they talk or the fact that their humor just happens to be different than yours…well, not cool. At all. I mean, I can't help where I was born. I can't help the way I sound. That's like hating someone because of their race or because they have a disability. It's not like they can really help it. So, basically, you hate me because I exist. So, sorry for existing. (SARCASM. See, we can do everything you can do. Amazing! And once again, sarcasm, ladies and gents.)

Furthermore, there is a little bit of an issue with stereotyping here, obviously. Not all Americans are rude. When I wrote the chapter this person is referring to, I was just poking a little bit of fun at how all Americans are thought to be rude. That doesn't mean we are! Just like assuming all people who wear glasses are nerds or all men are cheaters, it's just downright silly. I (clearly) understand sarcasm, I do distinguish between English, Irish, Scottish, Welsh, etc. accents, and you and I have different senses of humor and grammar usages. _Oh my._ (There I go again with the sarcasm.) Just to be clear, American and British humor is very different, which is more than likely the reason you don't find our shows to be funny. Just a cultural difference, my friend. You probably spell the word favorite like "favourite" and I spell it as "favorite." Either way is correct. Each different dialect of every language has different grammar and spellings, and that's okay. No one is right or wrong here.

My point here is that you shouldn't hate someone just because they're different than you or you think they fit a certain stereotype you have in your head. Every culture does things differently. That's great, that's brilliant. There are awesome, clever, funny people from every single nationality and there are probably some rather unpleasant ones from every nationality too. That's what makes the world go round, my friend. If we were all like you (and quite frankly, I wouldn't want to behave as you do), then the world would be incredibly dull. Wouldn't it drive you mad if everyone was the same as you and did everything right and said exactly what you wanted them to say and we all looked and sounded alike? That's bonkers. I'm not religious, but I believe we each have a unique place in the world, and that's what makes us interesting and human.

So, if you are reading this, I hope it teaches you a valuable lesson. Yes, you have a right to say what you want. But you cannot just stereotype a whole group of people and talk about how horrible they are for being different and expect everyone to be peachy keen about it. It's just not going to happen. I know, _how American_ to get offended. Well, I'm sure (like you said in your comment) that you would be pretty damn offended too if someone just assumed all Brits sounded the same and were "posh t**s". It isn't fun, is it? So, my advice, whether you want it or not, and whether or not you decide to heed it, is this:

Don't assume you know everything about everyone and certainly don't judge someone without knowing the full story. You don't know me. I could be the most awesome person ever, but because I'm American, you just assume I'm unpleasant and you won't even give me a chance.

Please, please think before you speak. You never know how your words could impact someone. When you apologized before and after your offensive rant, it was kind of like saying "Sorry, but…" and then shooting someone in the head, and then apologizing to their corpse. Like "Whoops, sorry I shot you, but I still totally meant it." If you have to apologize both before and after you say something and acknowledge how offensive what you are saying is, _then don't bloody say it._ Just because you apologize before (and then after, in this case) doesn't make it any less offensive. I don't care how old you are, you clearly have some growing up to do, and hopefully this will serve as a lesson to think about what you say before you say it, a hallmark of true maturity.

Now, one more thing. To my other readers, I hope you understand where I am coming from. No, I didn't do this just because I'm American (although the comments did particularly sting). I would do this if someone had said something about British people or Canadians or Germans or the Japanese, whoever. It's simply not right to dislike someone because of where they're from. I cannot help that I am American. I didn't choose to be born, but I'm happy I'm here and I love my country and I love my life. I'm incredibly lucky. I try to be the best person I can be and I try to help others out. I understand jokes, and I like comedy from many different places (Have you seen Spanish comedy? Hilarious.) and I have friends from all different walks of life and nationalities. (Btw, I've met a few British people and they all think I'm adorable. Just sayin'.) So, please, guys, don't take everything at face value. You need to dig deeper.

Just to clarify, in case I haven't made it quite clear, I value all of my readers, no matter where they're from, and no, I certainly do not stereotype anyone. It's not fair to them or to me because I could miss out on knowing some really awesome people. So, please just don't judge a book by its cover.

If you're like my offensive reviewer and you just hate a group of people simply because they exist, then please, don't read my stories. I don't want you to. I write for myself but also to entertain others. I really don't want people like you reading my stories because quite frankly, you seem like a bit of a jerk. I write fanfiction for people to enjoy. We're all united in a really wonderful fandom. Isn't it cool to think about how one show can bring together so many people? So, if you're going to be a party-pooper, then just don't read my fics because I honestly don't have the time nor the inclination to deal with people like you. This story is not the time nor the place for that. This is for fun, not to offend people or to upset anyone, but you just took it too far, so just please leave me and my work ALONE so the rest of us can enjoy it in peace and I won't have to write a long letter like this ever again (not that I intend to) We're here to read and relax and get away, and if you can't do that, then go find someone else to bother with your bigoted comments. You can say what you want about my work or me or whatever, but just don't go around being hateful just to be hateful. It's neither fair nor nice to the people you are talking about. You can keep those thoughts to yourself, please and thank you.

Now that that is out of the way, I will probably post another chapter. This whole debacle kind of got me off track.

I would appreciate it if, now that I have said what I have to say, we all just move on. I wanted everyone to know how I feel about such things, and if you don't agree, see ya! If I lose a follower who behaves or even thinks like the aforementioned reviewer, I assure you, I won't lose any sleep. I will never mention this again. Hopefully the review will be taken down, and if the person who wrote it wants to contact me, go ahead. Like I said, I won't mention it again. Let's all behave like adults now, shall we?


	18. Chapter 15

**Christmas with the Holmeses. Very fluffy and sweet, plus we get to hear some pretty crazy honeymoon stories. Enjoy. :)**

* * *

On Christmas Day, Emily and Mrs. Hudson were buzzing about 221B Baker Street, making sure everything was perfect for the Christmas party to be held there later.

Sherlock came in the kitchen, slamming down grocery bags. "First and last time I ever do that," he mumbled, sitting in a kitchen chair with his arms crossed.

"Did you get lost?" Emily said, pausing from her cooking long enough to pat him on the head with feigned sympathy.

"Possibly," was all he would say.

"Poor baby," she cooed, hugging him against her. "Did you at least get everything on my list?"

"A fruitcake, bottled water, whisky for Mycroft, eggs, aspirin for me, nutmeg, tofu for Mary, flour, and potatoes," he recited.

"Thank you." She bent down and kissed the top of his head quickly and silently before getting back to her cooking.

"I got something for you too," he declared, reaching for something. "I know we aren't exchanging our actual gifts until tonight but I figured you might want these." He held up a bag from Emily's favorite chip shop, grinning.

"God, I love you," she exclaimed, grabbing the bag out of his hands. "Mrs. Hudson, can you come watch the food for me?" she called, greedily opening the bag and beginning to eat chips maniacally.

"Better than sex," she said with a satisfied face.

"I might just have to prove that one wrong," Sherlock countered.

"I dare you," she urged, looking down at him fierily.

"Should I go back downstairs?" Mrs. Hudson asked meekly.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," Emily apologized. "Didn't see you there."

"You know, Frank and I were like that when we first got married. For the whole marriage, really." Her voice suddenly became hushed. "Finding out he was a drug dealer really kind of put a damper on things."

"So does a double homicide," Sherlock pointed out.

"So don't murder anyone or become a drug dealer," Emily joked to Sherlock.

"I've already got all of that out of my system," he conceded.

"Good to know," Emily agreed, laughing as she ate another chip.

"So who is going to be at this 'party'"? Sherlock questioned.

"There's us, Mrs. Hudson, John, Mary, Lestrade, Molly, and Mycroft."

"How did you con Mycroft into coming?" Sherlock wondered.

"Cake," she answered simply, chomping down on two chips at once.

"And we purchased 'gifts' for all of these people?"

"No, _we_ didn't. _I_ did," Emily corrected him. "But on the labels, it's going to be from both of us."

Sherlock nodded, leaning back in his chair, waiting for the party to start.

At 7 P.M. sharp, Molly and Lestrade came in, gifts in the hands that weren't tightly wound in one another. Emily had won that bet, but she and Sherlock had several others pending.

Next was John and Mary, and last was Mycroft, who stayed only long enough for dinner and a slice of cake. He even exchanged gifts with Sherlock and Emily.

"A crib," Sherlock noted as he unwrapped the gift. "Thank you, Mycroft."

"Someone will be coming between now and New Years to convert John's old room into a nursery," Mycroft announced.

"Thank you, really," Emily said, hugging Mycroft tightly. She and Sherlock's combined income and savings were already enough that they could retire and live comfortably for the rest of their lives, though they never lived beyond their means or told it to anyone. Sherlock had earned enough off the Reichenbach Falls case alone to send their child to college a few times over. Still, he and Emily let Mycroft help out with the crib and things for the baby because according to Sherlock, monetary support was about as close to affection as Mycroft would probably ever get. Besides, Mycroft seemed to get some sort of strange satisfaction from it but not even he really knew their financial situation.

Mycroft awkwardly cleared his throat and stepped away after giving Emily a pat on the back.

"And here's your gift," Emily said, handing Mycroft an envelope.

"Not a gift card," Mycroft thought to himself. He was pleasantly surprised when he opened the card to find a plane ticket. "Norway."

"Nice and peaceful," Emily said. "Very quiet. Good for some much needed solitude. I had Anthea clear a whole week for you in mid-January. Even the British government needs a break," she noted.

"Thank you," Mycroft said, grateful yet uncomfortable. "I will put it to good use."

He left rather shortly after that, leaving the others to open their gifts.

"A wine rack for me and Molly, complete with a vintage bottle of wine," Lestrade said, slightly amused. "How'd you know we were getting a flat together?"

Emily simply smiled and held out her hand to Sherlock.

"Dammit," he sighed, handing her another 50 quid from his wallet.

For John and Mary, it was two plane tickets to Hawaii for their honeymoon in June.

"You're much more generous than Sherlock ever was," John joked, hugging Emily in thanks.

"It's no big deal, I was already at the airport," Emily joked.

"We have something for you too," Mary said, holding up two medium sized boxes stacked on top of one another.

The first was for "Baby Holmes" and was filled with several onesies, all in variations of blue. At the bottom of the box was a small coat, very similar to Sherlock's. "For when he's older," Mary explained.

The next box had a new digital camera and a photo album in it, for pictures of the next year or so. "To capture all the cases, the birth, the wedding, and just in general," John said.

Mrs. Hudson simply gave all the couples different cookbooks; vegetarian for John and Mary, baking for Molly and Lestrade, and world cuisine for Emily and Sherlock, plus some baby clothes. In return, she received a foot spa, some imported lager, and a set of mystery novels from the Holmeses (who both remarked that Mrs. Hudson was like a mother to them), and a new television for her kitchen from John and Mary so she could finally watch her cooking shows while actually cooking.

Molly and Lestrade gave everyone certificates for a free spa day at some posh spa in downtown London.

"When would I ever use this?" Sherlock whispered to Emily as she hit him with her elbow. "I mean, thank you."

"Just you and me now, Mr. Holmes," Emily said, looking under the tree.

"I want mine first," Sherlock replied.

"Your wish is my command." She then presented him with one small box.

"It's a book," he said before he had even opened the box.

"Yes, but what book?" Emily prompted.

He opened the box and could not believe his eyes. "You wrote this," he said, slightly shocked.

Bound simply was a copy of all of Sherlock's cases since his fall, all written in novel form. It was entitled _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes._

"It's not much," she commented. "Finally put that English degree to use," she joked.

"How long have you worked on this?" he asked, still very surprised.

"A while," she admitted. "All those times I said I couldn't go on a case...Even at work. A secretary has to do something to bide her time."

He turned to a page and read it. He had always admired her writing; he had been the only one she had ever showed her more creative side to. He was her trusted editor and first reader, always.

He paused, in awe. "You make me out to be some sort of hero," he chuckled.

"That's because you are," she answered simply.

For once, he was speechless. He simply got out of his chair, putting the book down carefully.

He then dipped his wife low to the ground, kissing her, not even minding the company.

When he was finished, he cleared his throat and straightened them both up, sitting back down in his chair calmly while everyone – including Emily – was shocked.

It was one thing to kiss his wife in front of strangers, but in front of everyone they knew, _that _was progress.

After a long pause, Emily spoke up. "I had a lot of help from John in regards to editing, so…"

"So, you can kiss me like that, too, if you want," John jokingly suggested.

"I'm good," Sherlock replied, cracking a smile.

"I haven't even said the best part," Emily added. "I went to a publisher…and they love it. It needs a couple tweaks, and I'm going to use a pen name, but it's getting published."

After congratulations from everyone, Lestrade spoke up with good news of his own. "Now, everyone knows I am in the process of getting a divorce from Marie, and you've all been great, especially Molly." He smiled, then continued. "With a little investigation, me and Sherlock found out some…things about Marie."

"She's a frequent heroin user and a cheater, but of course, we all already knew that," Sherlock threw in.

"Thanks for that," Lestrade said sarcastically. "Anyway, that is, well, bad, but that means the courts granted me full custody of Timmy," he beamed.

"After a paternity test," Sherlock added.

"So, me and Molly are going to be living together with my son," he said, getting emotional. Molly gave him a hug, as did everyone else, even Sherlock.

When things calmed down after a bit, Sherlock quietly got a present out from under the tree. "Here's yours, Emily."

She ripped open the small box while Sherlock anxiously watched, finding a very long typed essay, it seemed. "'The Physical and Emotional Requirements in a Mate,'" Emily read off.

"It details what physical and emotional features are ideal in a female mate, and how you fit all of them. Your nurturing nature and in proportion breast and hip size make you a biologically perfect wife and mother. Then, I spend a few pages speculating what our child will look like. Unfortunately, mostly like me since it's a boy…but he will get some features from you, and hopefully more of your personality. I estimate his IQ based off of our respective ones and his possible career choices. And then, a little drawing of what he will probably look like, for, um, illustrative purposes."

"Thank you," she said, laughing along with the others. "It's wonderful."

"What's so funny? Did I do something wrong?"

"No," she said, hugging him close to her. "It's very sweet."

"It's just a strange way of being romantic," John threw in, chuckling. "It's very Sherlock."

"It's sweet, mate," Lestrade added.

Molly and Mary and Mrs. Hudson continued laughing.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, throwing her arms around him. "We didn't know you thought that way."

"They're my new favorite couple," Mary said to Molly, who nodded her head in agreement.

Sherlock's face had turned bright red as he sat there listening to the others' comments. "What's next, pulling out wedding photos?"

"You know," Mary said, sipping some eggnog, "we never did see these photos. I say we have a look."

Everyone except Sherlock agreed and Emily pulled out the album while Sherlock sat there grumpily. "You look lovely," Molly commented to Emily.

"Awwww," Lestrade said when he saw the photo of their first kiss as husband and wife.

"Oohhhhh," John commented, looking at a photo from their honeymoon of the two in swimsuits at a pool.

"Is that a picture of a jail?" Mary asked, laughing.

"We had gotten drunk one night and ended up in jail for disturbing the peace…apparently, we woke the entire bed and breakfast up with our rendition of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' at 4 in the morning. We had to call our boss to come bail us out," Emily said, giggling like a madwoman.

"Emily," Sherlock said, embarrassed. "No one needs to know that."

"Oh, so I can't tell them about the tattoo?"

"_Especially_ not the tattoo."

"We wanna hear about the tattoo," Mary urged.

Emily pursed her lips. "Can I?" she asked Sherlock. "It's too good."

"No," he said firmly.

"Eh…I will, anyway. So, that same night, after a few drinks, we end up at a tattoo parlor, Sherlock…" She had to pause to laugh. "Sherlock gets a tattoo of my name…"

"Emily…"

"On his…" She began to laugh uncontrollably.

"Emily."

"Oh, come on, Sherlock, please?" she practically begged, trying to catch her breath. "Humor a pregnant woman, would you?"

He took a deep breath. "I am going to go into our room for exactly one minute. Say whatever you like, but I will steadfastly deny it all." With that, he ducked into their bedroom, all the guests scooting in closer to Emily.

"He gets a tattoo of my name…on his…"

Sherlock burst back into the living room, deciding to just get it over with. "On my bum. Happy?"

"Like a cattle brand," Emily managed to choke out, but everyone, including Sherlock, was too busy laughing.

"Is it still there?" Lestrade asked, in tears.

"No!" Sherlock paused. "Yes." Then he laughed some more.

"He had me giving him whisky the whole time for the pain," Emily said, practically in hysterics.

"Now you have to tell them what _you_ did on our honeymoon…" Sherlock warned.

"Not that, anything but that."

"You made me tell," Sherlock reminded her.

She sighed as everyone piped down to listen to her tale. "The same night – everything happened that night I swear – I was, like I said, quite drunk, and I, uh, I um, sort of flashed…someone."

"And whom did you flash again, Mrs. Holmes?" Sherlock asked, knowing full well the answer.

"Our boss when he came to bail us out of jail…" she replied meekly, making everyone laugh all over again.

"You're lucky Mr. Scott had an unrequited crush on you, or we would have both been fired, not that I really would have cared, now that I think about it," Sherlock reminded her.

"See, drunk me is sometimes smart. I just gave Mr. Scott a present for bailing us out of jail," Emily reasoned, giggling. "Let's finish the photos, eh?"

After everyone calmed down, they flipped through more photos of the happy couple.

"Sherlock dances?" John questioned, examining a photo of Emily and Sherlock taken on a dancefloor.

"Quite wonderfully, too," Emily replied.

"She's a fantastic dancer," Sherlock said, pointing to his wife.

"He taught me," Emily informed everyone.

"You won a karaoke contest?" Mary asked Emily, looking at another photo.

"Oh, yes," Emily said, she and Sherlock locking eyes and bursting into a fit of laughter.

"I don't like rap music," Sherlock contended, "but she is a brilliant rapper when she is drunk."

"Didn't miss a word," Emily said smugly.

"And this is Sherlock, shirtless and in a bar fight…" Lestrade said, trying to block Molly's view of the scantily clad detective.

"Over tobacco ash…" Emily added.

"I was right. And I won," Sherlock threw in.

"I had to pull you off that poor man."

"But you had to take a picture first."

"Of course. It was our honeymoon!" Emily exclaimed. "And here's Sherlock, sleeping off a hangover…" she pointed out.

"And here's Sherlock and his admirer…" she added, pointing to a photo of Sherlock and a little girl, probably about 6. "It was so sweet. She kept saying he was handsome, like Prince Charming," Emily said. "We found her lost by the pool and stayed with her until she found her mother. By then, she and Sherlock were already engaged…"

"You're just jealous because I found a younger woman," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"Is that you…stealing a stop sign?" Molly asked, looking back at the photos.

"You better be glad Ireland isn't in my jurisdiction," Lestrade joked.

"Do you still have it?" John asked.

"It's in our closet…" Emily answered.

"Where do you just get a jackhammer in the middle of the night?" Mary wondered.

"We know a guy," Emily replied shiftily.

"And there you are smoking from a hookah," Mrs. Hudson, who had remained very silent up until this point, noticed. "Did you two actually have sex on this honeymoon?" she slurred.

"Alright, Mrs. Hudson, time to go back downstairs. No more wine," John said, leading her to the door and down the stairs.

"You'll swipe the lager for now, won't you?" Emily asked Sherlock, who held the bottle in his hand.

"I knew better," Sherlock replied.

They continued looking at photos until midnight, when everyone agreed they should head back in, leaving Emily and Sherlock to clean up.

"Looks like Mrs. Hudson got most of it, before she…" Emily then titled her head back and pretended to drink.

"When are we going to give each other the other gifts?" Sherlock asked, plopping down hard in his chair, sighing. They had agreed not to be showy in front of everyone and to save the more private, sentimental gifts for later, a rule they had clearly already broken.

She sat down in his lap, two gifts from the closet in her hands. They both had not bothered to hide the gifts properly because they knew the other would always find it.

"You first," Sherlock insisted.

She complied, opening the oddly-shaped yet neatly wrapped present. "A gift basket," she said, smiling. She began to go through the items one by one while Sherlock looked on. "My favorite perfume, gift cards to my favorite stores, some of my favorite movies….you made me a mixtape!" She held up a CD. "I haven't got one of those since high school."

"Nothing says Christmas like illegally downloaded music for your wife," Sherlock said.

"A scarf, a glass paperweight?" She paused, then continued with recognition. "Glass is what brought us together." She began to delve into some of the more private gifts. "Chocolates, the champagne we drank when we solved our first case – we'll have to save that for when I'm not so pregnant – candles, lingerie? Very nice lingerie. Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Holmes?"

"Depends – is it working?" he asked, leaning in closer to her face.

"Hasn't it always?" she retorted, leaning in as well.

He patted her stomach. "Obviously."

"Later," she promised. "You still need your gift." With that, she put hers aside, reaching down for a large wrapped box.

He neatly shed the wrapping paper, leaving the bow intact.

"A violin," he said, slightly bemused. He opened the case to find a very old but very well taken care of violin.

"1870s," he guessed. He looked in the bottom at the case, finding a certificate of authenticity, although he and Emily both knew that didn't really matter. "Don't worry, it's real," he assured her. "Made by…Charles Jean Baptiste Collin-Mezin, the French instrument maker…even has his signature right here….Thank you. This is lovely," he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

"Want to try it out?" she asked, handing him the bow.

She got up, giving him room. He proceeded to play some Mozart, then some music he had composed himself.

"This is brilliant," he said when he had finished. "You paid attention," he noted, remembering that he had been complaining about his other violin when he thought no one could hear him.

"So did you," she replied, nodding her head over to her gift. "You gave me some of my favorite things. Thank you."

He continued playing some music he had been working on, all inspired by her. He wouldn't tell her that, but she already knew.

After finally cleaning up, they decided to watch some of the movies he had given her. First was _Pulp Fiction_, her favorite.

At one point, when they were both about to nod off, she went to kiss him, startling him. "'Oh, I'm sorry, did I break your concentration?'" she quoted, laughing.

"What?" he asked.

She laughed again. "No, that one's too easy. Want to go to bed?"

He nodded sleepily, dragging himself to their bedroom, her by his side. She tucked him in like he had done for her countless times, eventually settling in next to him. He was still awake, she noticed.

"I was waiting on you," he said before she could even ask. "Good night."

"Night. Merry Christmas," she added.

"Merry Christmas," he mumbled, drifting off to sleep.


	19. Chapter 16

Three days after Emily was supposed to give birth, Sherlock was running around 221B Baker Street, his normally coifed hair in wild curls, his face covered in two days' worth of five o'clock shadow, and his suit traded in for an untucked blue button down and jeans.

Emily was at the computer, still quite pregnant, but not seeming to mind. She was working on the final manuscript of her novel. Mycroft, who had been hovering over the two for about a week, was sitting in Sherlock's chair, reading a paper.

"A full English," Sherlock said, putting a plate next to Emily.

"How'd you know?" she questioned.

"You were talking about it in your sleep," he answered, placing a cup of tea next to her as well. "Decaf. You don't need too much caffeine right now."

Mycroft sat there, observing his little brother dash about the flat, reading baby books, cleaning, cooking. Sherlock had refused to let Emily do anything for at least two weeks.

"Thank you," Emily said to Sherlock. "But I could've done it myself," she reminded him. "I'm pregnant, not helpless."

"You need your rest," Sherlock said absentmindedly, checking his wife's vital signs.

"Sherlock, why don't you go rest? The baby will come when he decides to come. The doctor said I'm perfectly normal," Emily said, hoping he would stop fussing over her.

He gave her a look, his "wounded puppy" look, she called it. He only used that look when he needed to get his way, and he always used his big blue-green eyes to his advantage.

She sighed. "Since you insist on not even letting me get up, I could use some ink for the printer…"

"I'll get it," he said quietly, tossing on a coat and heading out the door quickly, not even acknowledging Mycroft.

Emily saved her document and got up slowly, stretching. She took her breakfast and tea and sat in the chair opposite Mycroft.

"You don't need ink," Mycroft said matter-of-factly, putting his newspaper in his lap.

"I know," she replied. "But if he's going to fuss over me and wait on me hand and foot, it'll do him good to get out a little bit. Besides, it gives him something to do so he's not here worrying about me."

"He's nervous," Mycroft explained. "Do you know how our mother died?"

"No…" Emily responded, thinking it an odd question.

"In childbirth, with our little brother. We lost him, too," Mycroft said, still remaining his usual emotionless self. He clicked his tongue. "Sherlock idolized our mother. Followed her everywhere she went. He prided himself on being 'Mummy's Little Helper.' The day of her funeral, he took the family dog and ran so far into the woods we almost had to call a search team. Missed the entire ceremony. I suppose all of his extra precaution now is to make sure that what happened to Mother won't happen to you. It won't, I assure you, but let's face it, you're probably the only important woman in Sherlock's life besides Mother. He's absolutely besotted with you." He shook his head. "Follows you around like a puppy. Freud would have a field day with him, really."

Emily took a sip of her tea. "He never told me that. I just assumed he was putting in all the extra effort because he hated your father so much, so he wouldn't be a 'dead-beat dad.'"

He laughed. "Ah, Father. That's a whole different game. He loved me, hated Sherlock. So, I hated him, too," he said quietly, a response that made Emily smile a little.

Mycroft sighed. "Is it so obvious that I care about my little brother? If so, I must be more discreet…"

"He cares about you too, in his own way. We both do," Emily clarified. "We worry about you being alone."

"I won't be," Mycroft replied, clearly getting uncomfortable.

Emily decided to change the subject. "Now, are you going to be in the delivery room?"

"Of course. Sherlock and I have worked it all out. I'll be there, if that's alright," he added, knowing that her answer probably wouldn't change his.

"It's alright," she agreed, swallowing a piece of egg, noticing Sherlock had been heavy on the pepper. "Who would I be to deny an uncle the first glimpse of his newborn nephew?"

Mycroft cracked a smile at her comment. "Besides, I have a feeling you are going to need someone to hold your hand. Sherlock wants to see the whole thing….Sentiment?"

"Sentiment," Emily answered. "It took forever for me to convince him not to videotape it," she said, laughing.

"If it makes you feel any better, I switched out the decaf tea bags with caffeinated ones," Mycroft said.

"I think the baby and I are definitely feeling it. He's kicking like mad….Do you want to feel?" she asked him.

Mycroft hesitated, then got up slowly and put his hand on her stomach. "Interesting," he commented, holding his hand on her stomach for several seconds. He went to go sit back down, but before he did, he turned back around. "You don't have to be worried about me being alone. I have my little brother_ and_ little sister and nephew to worry about now," he noted somewhat wryly, but she could tell he got some enjoyment from the fact.

"And you wouldn't have it any other way," she pointed out.

He smiled slightly and picked his newspaper back up. Enough sentiment for one day, he thought.

* * *

When Sherlock came back, Mycroft was gone, dealing with an emergency Parliament meeting.

"He said he'd be back soon," Emily told Sherlock.

"He better be," Sherlock mumbled to himself, hoping Emily didn't hear.

Thankfully she didn't, or at least she pretended so, because she invited him over to their couch, sitting down with his head in her lap. She started to rub his head, humming some of his favorite songs.

"What're you doing?" he asked, his eyes closed.

"Just trying to relax you," she answered soothingly. "You've been a little on edge."

"Emily," he began.

"I'm the pregnant one. You've been giving me whatever I want the past few days, and I want this, so, in theory, you must comply."

He let out a relaxed sigh, figuring he might as well enjoy it. He soon began to let his mind wander, and eventually, he lifted his head up, kissing his wife, who responded in kind.

Five minutes later, just as he was down in his knees in front of her, kissing her thighs, his hands reaching for more intimate areas, she stopped him.

"Sherlock, it's time," she warned him, gently pushing his head away from her. "I'm definitely feeling some contractions now…"

"Yes!" he exclaimed, getting off the floor and helping her get redressed. "Our plan worked out perfectly," he said, rubbing his hands together.

"Excuse me?" she asked angrily, tossing on her shirt.

"Come on, I know Mycroft switched out the tea, I practically poured pepper all over your breakfast, and then I was about to have sex with you. You know what we were getting at," Sherlock said, acting as if it were obvious. "Mycroft has no meeting with Parliament, he's downstairs in the café eating a sandwich! He just gave us some privacy. I didn't really go to get ink, I had Mrs. Hudson do it. Like I would leave you alone when you're about to give birth. I was simply giving you some time to get more comfortable with Mycroft since he's about to get a firsthand glimpse at your…"

He stopped talking when she looked at him angrily, her right hand forming into a fist. "Sherlock Holmes..." she started, fuming, then abruptly burst into laughter. "That's adorable. You think you were one-upping me?" she asked, almost crying from laughter.

"What?" he questioned, confused.

"I started contractions this morning," Emily said, grimacing as she felt one come on.

"And you're just now telling me this?" Sherlock exclaimed, panicking.

"Oh, calm down, my contractions are not even five minutes apart. I knew Mycroft switched the tea days ago, and I saw you putting all the pepper on my breakfast. I knew there was no emergency meeting of Parliament, I watch the news. Do you think I'm so daft?"

"Again, you're just now telling me this," Sherlock stated, hoping his emphasis would calm him down, but to no avail.

"I wanted to get a shower and get some work done first. There would be no point in going to the hospital and waiting around and being bored to tears when I could just wait here. Plus, there was the full English and sex for the last time until God knows when. How could I pass that up? Besides, I knew you would panic, so it gave me a chance to get you relaxed before I told you. But I really wanted the sex first…" She then winced in pain. "Okay, three minutes apart now, and I'm pretty sure my water is breaking…"

"We're leaving right now," Sherlock said, grabbing the bag they had packed weeks ago, only stopping to text Mycroft.

Mycroft burst into the door. "Hercules is go!"

"Hercules?" Emily asked, grabbing Sherlock's hand and squeezing it.

"Hercules was a pretty famous baby," Sherlock said, shrugging.

"Oh, so our son is going to eventually grow up and murder his wife and children? Lovely," she said sarcastically.

"He didn't do that in the Disney version," Sherlock clarified.

"Would you two shut up?" Mycroft shouted. "We need to go to the hospital _now_."

* * *

After almost twelve hours of labor, their baby was born at 1:45 A.M. on a Tuesday morning. He was placed almost instantly on Emily's chest right after Sherlock had proudly cut the cord.

Upon first seeing their son, Sherlock was immediately curious, watching his every move as an exhausted Emily held him in her arms.

"He's beautiful," she said, looking down at the tiny baby in her arms with adoration. "Perfect."

"May I?" Sherlock said, holding his arms out, never taking his eyes off the little creature Emily was holding.

She gave their boy a kiss and then handed him to Sherlock, watching how her husband interacted with their son.

"Hello," Sherlock greeted as he balanced the baby in his arms, being sure to hold his head up. He looked on as his boy's wild blue eyes, a good mix of both parents', searched the room.

"Daddy loves you," he reminded his son as he rocked him back and forth gently, kissing the boy's head. He eventually, although reluctantly, handed their baby to Mycroft, who held his nephew very carefully and in his own cold, observing way.

He walked back over to Emily, giving her a quick peck on the lips, noting how natural she had looked with their baby, and how she had looked strangely more beautiful now than before.

After breastfeeding their son for the first time, Emily fell in and out of sleep, watching Sherlock hold their baby boy in his arms while rocking and singing to him. Mycroft soon left, and no visitors came, except for John, who had stayed long past everyone else left to go home and get some sleep for work. Even he had to go home too, but Emily knew he would be back, and truthfully, she didn't mind. She just wanted quality time with her boys.

She soon fell properly asleep, and after the baby's temperature became regulated, with the help of a blanket and some skin-to-skin contact with both parents, he was examined, weighed, and foot-printed. He was given a clean bill of health, although some more tests would be performed later. Sherlock had requested that the baby not be put in a nursery, choosing instead to watch over the baby himself while Emily rested. Every few hours, their baby would wake up, hungry, and Emily would wake up as well to feed him, while both parents took turns trying to soothe their baby back to sleep.

"You're good at that," Emily noted to Sherlock as he was gently rocking their newborn in his arms.

"I've been watching you," he replied, placing their son back in his little bassinet.

She smiled at him sleepily. "He looks just like you, he's gorgeous."

"He has a little bit of Mum in there," Sherlock replied. "Let's hope he acts more like you," he said, only half-joking.

"Are we still going with our original name choice?" Emily asked. They hadn't been asked to do a birth certificate yet, so there was still time to change their minds.

"I think so. He looks like a Benjamin, doesn't he?"

"He does…So that's it, then. Benjamin Arthur Watson Holmes…When are we going to ask John and Mary?"

"As soon as we see them, I suppose," Sherlock replied, yawning. He gently scooted his chair closer to his wife, grabbing her hand and silently kissing it.

He didn't have to say it. She already knew.


End file.
